


Here Be Dragons

by SnarkyWriter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 28,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyWriter/pseuds/SnarkyWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and the Warden have been summoned to Skryim to help the Blades deal with the dragon menace, as the Dragonborn has not appeared. Neither of them is amused, and they just want to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawke and the Warden

 

            Even before Hawke opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong.  The air was too cold and musty to be her bedroom.  The blanket over her was wool instead of cotton.  She always slept nude, yet now she was dressed in some sort of wool garment that left her arms and shins bare.  Careful to breathe as though she were still asleep, she listened for some clue as to where she was.  Besides being cold, the air was unnaturally still, and the lack of ambient noise indicated she was in a basement of some sort.  Steady breathing from about five feet away indicated another sleeping person, probably not whoever had brought her here.  If it was, then he was an idiot for falling asleep without restraining or drugging her.

            Hearing no other life signs, Hawke rolled to her feet, tossing the blanket aside, and dropped to a defensive position, scanning the small basement room quickly.  The sleeping man was on a cot much like hers, with a similar blanket and shift. Probably also kidnapped, then.  Dismissing him as a threat, Hawke stood and examined the rest of the room.  It was small, maybe twelve meters square, with a table in the middle, a chest against one wall, a few shelves with various bottles and plants, an empty weapon rack on a wall, and a round table with strange markings and some sort of apparatus in the corner.  A map and book rested on the table, and Hawke strode over to look.  The map showed no country she was familiar with—Ferelden and the Free Marches didn’t appear anywhere on it—and the book was bound in black leather with a stylized dragon on the cover.

            A narrow stairway led out of the room, but the door at the top had no handle on the inside and seemed to be blocked with something heavy.  Hawke pressed her ear to it but heard nothing, not even muffled noises.  Stomping back down the stairs, she paused at the bottom to look at the man on the other cot.  He was tall and lean, suggesting mage rather than warrior, with shaggy brown hair and a scruffy beard lining his face.  He looked vaguely familiar, but Hawke couldn’t place him.  He twitched slightly and moaned, and Hawke hurried over to perch on the edge of her cot.  Startled or frightened mages could be dangerous, and she had no desire to be trapped in a burning basement.

            “Easy,” she said, pitching her voice to soothe.

            He sat straight up, his hands beginning to glow as he took in his surroundings.  “Who are you?” he demanded.  “By what right do you take me from my duty?”

            “Not me,” Hawke said.  “I’m as much a prisoner here as you.”

            The mage’s eyes narrowed, but the gathering magic in his hands dissipated.  Hawke relaxed incrementally.  “What’s your name?” she asked

            “Drake,” he said.

            “Hawke,” Hawke said, offering her hand.

            Drake shook it.  “Lila Hawke?” he asked.

            Hawke winced.  “Just Hawke.”

            “But you are the Champion of Kirkwall.  The one who negotiated peace with the Qunari.  And protected the mages during the Templar repression.”

            “That was a long time ago,” Hawke said.  “What about you?”

            “Oh.  Just the Warden Commander of Ferelden.”  His eyes slid away from hers and his shoulders rose slightly.

            “ _You’re_ the Warden Commander?  The Blight-Queller?  Right hand of King Alastair?”

            His shrug was more defined this time.  “That is what they call me.”

            “Well.”  Hawke leaned back, folding her arms.  “Now we just need to figure out where we are and how we got here.”

            “We are no longer in Ferelden?”

            “As far as I can tell, we’re no longer in _Thedas_ ,” Hawke said.  She pointed to the map on the table.  “The land mass on that map is nothing I’ve ever seen.  And the countries on it have weird names.”

            “What names?” Drake asked.  He stood, the blanket sliding from his hips, and realized at the same moment Hawke did that the shift barely covered him.  She politely averted her eyes while he wrapped the blanket around his waist and tucked the ends in.  Then she followed him back over to the table and watched as he examined the map for himself.

            “Elsweyr,” he murmured.  “Morrowind.  Skyrim.  Hammerfell.”  He stood up with a heavy sigh.  “You are correct.  We are not in Thedas.”

            “So how did we get here?” Hawke asked.  “You’re the mage.  Any ideas?”

            Drake’s brows drew down.  “I suppose we could have been summoned.”

            “Summoned?”

            He nodded.  “Such spells are less common in Ferelden due to their association with blood mages and demons, but they do exist.  Perhaps we were summoned.  The only other explanation I can think of is that we were captured, drugged, carted to a part of Thedas of which _I_ have never heard, and all under the watchful eyes of our friends and relatives.  In my case, several dozen Grey Wardens.”

            “That doesn’t sound likely,” Hawke said.

            “No,” Drake agreed.

            “Well, then.  Magic.”  Hawke sighed and leaned on the table.  “I’m no good with magic.”

            “As luck would have it, I am,” Drake said.  Hawke managed a weak smile.  “First, however, we must ascertain who brought us here and what spell they used.”

            “I’ve checked; there’s no way out of the room.  At least, not without blasting that door up there off the hinges.”  Hawke indicated the stairs with a jab of her thumb over her shoulder.  “And that might tip our hand a bit.”

            “A bit,” Drake agreed.  “Although if we are not fed within a few days, I may consider it.”

            Hawke smiled weakly and sat down on the bench.  “So I guess we wait.”

            Drake joined her in sitting.  “Leliana will be so worried,” he murmured.

            Hawke stared at him.  “Leliana.  Sister _Nightingale_?”

            Drake smiled, a wide, genuinely happy smile.  “Is that the code name the Chantry gave her?  It is quite fitting.  Yes, Leliana.  We do not get much time together, but she is very special to me.”

            “She’s a great fighter,” Hawke remarked, remembering how efficiently the small red-headed woman had taken out several apostates.

            “And a lovely woman,” Drake agreed.  “Have you anyone special, Hawke?”

            _“It was nice to be happy . . . for awhile,” the mage said, and then Hawke’s blade slid between his ribs and into his heart._

            “No,” Hawke said.


	2. Delphine

 

            Drake had barely registered the sound at the top of the stairs when Hawke rolled off the bench and dropped to a crouch next to the stairs.  Drake got to his feet as well, preparing an arcane bolt in one hand and raising an arcane shield with the other.  He desperately missed his staff; without its focusing power, the bolt was likely to splatter rather than fly in a straight line.  However, it would likely distract their captor long enough for Hawke to obtain the advantage.

            The person on the stairs descended only far enough for him to see feet encased in leather boots, then stopped.  “Please do not be alarmed,” the person called down the stairs.  “I mean you no harm.”

            Drake shot Hawke a glance, and she shook her head emphatically.  Drake lowered his hands slightly so that he would look like less of a threat, but he did not allow the magical energy he had gathered to dissipate.  The person continued down the stairs, slowly, revealing leather greaves, then breeches, then a boiled leather chest plate.  Finally, the woman’s face came into view.  Her eyes met Drake’s, and as she cleared the lintel, he let fly.

            As he feared, the bolt was little more than a splash of color against the woman’s upraised arm and the doorframe around her.  But Hawke used the opportunity, sweeping the woman’s legs out from under her with a foot, then pinning her down.  Drake rounded the table, preparing another bolt, and stood over them.  The woman looked oddly calm considering her circumstances; the same could not be said for Hawke, whose grip on the woman’s shoulders was so tight her fingers were white, and her lips pulled back off her teeth in a snarl.

            “Who are you?” Drake demanded, sensing that Hawke was in no condition to interrogate their prisoner.

            “My name is Delphine,” the woman replied.  “I’m the one who brought you here, but it was mostly an accident, and I apologize.”

            Drake frowned at Hawke, whose snarl was replaced by a frown of her own.  Slowly, she got to her feet, releasing Delphine, but her posture remained one of cautious readiness.  Delphine also rose, spreading her hands to show that she held no weapon.  Her demeanor was still calm, but Drake saw the pulse beating at the base of her throat and knew she was nervous.

            “Where are we?” Drake asked.

            “Skyrim,” Delphine replied.  “I don’t think you’ll have heard of it.”

            “No,” Hawke grated.  “We really haven’t.”

            “May I?” Delphine gestured toward the table.  Hawke backed up just enough so that Delphine could approach it.

            “I assume you’ve had time to look at the map,” Delphine said.  When both Drake and Hawke nodded, she continued, “and you’re not from around here.”

            “I have studied the geography of Thedas,” Drake said.  “Most thoroughly, in fact.  These lands do not appear on any map I have ever seen.”

            “Thedas.  Is that what your world is called?”  Again, both Fereldens nodded.  “This is Tamriel,” she said, indicating the map.  “You are currently in Skyrim, the northernmost country on the continent.”

            “Why?” Hawke demanded.  “What possible purpose could you have to yank us away from our homes, our families, into a whole different world?”

            “It was an accident,” Delphine said.

            “I do not understand how this could be an accident,” Drake said.  “Summoning creatures from beyond the world takes very specific spellwork and preparation.  It is not an endeavor into which one should enter lightly, let alone one which could result in any accident other than the arrival of a demon.”

            Delphine shrugged, looking apologetic and confused at the same time.  “I’m not a mage, so I can’t explain exactly what happened,” she said.  “I got the spell from a mage.  I set everything up exactly as I was supposed to.  I asked for the Dragonborn.  When that didn’t work, I asked for a dragon slayer.  And you two appeared.”

            Hawke and Drake exchanged glances.  “Maybe you should explain more,” Hawke said.  “As thoroughly as possible.”

            Delphine nodded and sank onto the bench.  She picked up the black-leather-bound book and ran her hand over the cover.  “Thousands of years ago, dragons ruled Skyrim,” she said.  “They were killed, their bodies buried.  We moved on.  But now the dragons are coming back to life.  Something or someone is raising them from their barrows, and they’re wreaking havoc across Skyrim.  Now, usually there’s at least one person who can fight them.  We call him—or her—the Dragonborn.  He can speak the dragon language intuitively, use their words of power against them, and absorb their souls when they die so that they are truly dead.”  She put the book back down.  “But he hasn’t shown up.  And we can kill the dragons, but they’ll just keep coming until someone who can truly kill them arrives—or we find out who or what is bringing them back and take them out.”

            “Send us back,” Hawke said.  “Now.”

            “I can’t,” Delphine said.  “I don’t know how.  Honestly.”

            Hawke looked up at Drake, and in her eyes was a rage and helplessness that he had not seen since speaking with Alastair after the battle of Ostagar.  She turned away, her shoulders slumping.

            Drake turned back to Delphine, frowning again.  She met his eyes squarely.  “May I assume that you are hoping we will take on this dragon menace for you?” he asked.  “Perhaps eliminate the threat entirely?”

            “The thought had occurred to me,” Delphine admitted.  “I did ask for dragon slayers.  You all have killed dragons, haven’t you?”

            “Two or three,” Drake said, glancing at Hawke, who did not respond.

            “That’s more than anyone here can say,” Delphine said.  “Please.  We need your help.”

            Drake looked at Hawke again, and she turned back around.  The rage had drained, leaving only the helplessness with a hint of despair.

            “Fine,” she said.  “Where do we start?”


	3. The Bannered Mare

            Hawke took a deep breath of the cool air outside the Sleeping Giant Inn and reveled in the way the cold pierced her throat and lungs.  The air in Kirkwall was hot and humid, a dense slurry of moisture, the stink of too many people in too close a space, and until recently, fear and hatred.  Riverwood smelled faintly of cattle, newly sawn logs, and hot metal from the forge right across the street, but the overwhelming scent on the air was moving water and cold.  Hawke was glad for the extra layer of wool under the armor Delphine had secured for her; in the basement it had been stuffy and too warm, but out here it was perfect.

            Drake was fussing with his sword belt, which was made for armor, not the robes he wore.  Hawke had initially been surprised that he was a battle mage—he seemed too uptight and studious for such a thing—but on second thought, had realized that of course he was; he was Commander of the Grey Wardens.  He wouldn’t be able to settle on theory and other such ephemerals, but would have to be able to fight and teach others to fight.  Delphine had found him a set of robes with a few light spells woven in as well as a staff—which he said he would be able to adjust to his particular needs with a few hours’ work—and the sword he had asked for.

            “Do you have the map?” he asked.

            Hawke waved the folded paper at him, and he snatched it out of her hands and unfolded it.

            “Kynesgrove is here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the east side.  “And we are here.  So the most direct route. . . .”

            “I’m not going to Kynesgrove,” Hawke said.

            Drake’s brows furrowed.  “Come again?”

            “I agreed to help so we could get out of that basement,” Hawke said.  “I’m going to figure out how to get home.”  She grabbed the map back from him.  “The nearest good-sized settlement is Whiterun.  Someone there will know who to talk to about magic.”

            “The people of this land are in serious danger,” Drake said.  “Is it not our duty to help them?”

            Hawke snorted.  “I got dragged into enough other people’s problems in Kirkwall.  I quit after the Mage Rebellion, and I have no intention of getting sucked back in now.”

            Drake continued to frown at her.  “I do not understand you at all.”

            “Well, the feeling’s mutual.  You can go to Kynesgrove if you want.  Have fun killing the dragon.  I’m going home.”

            Drake stood motionless for a few seconds, staring at nothing in particular.  Finally he said, “I will travel with you as far as Whiterun and see what you discover about magic users in this country.  From there, I will decide further.  However, I took an oath to fight evil, and it seems to me that the dragons are essentially the Darkspawn of this country.”

            “Good for you.”  Hawke folded the map and shoved it into the shoulder bag Delphine had given her to carry their supplies.  “I didn’t take any oaths.”

            She stomped down the steps from the inn and headed up the road toward the bridge.  Drake followed, staying just far enough behind her that conversation would be difficult.  That was fine with Hawke; she didn’t want to talk, anyway.  Her anger was giving way to exhaustion and despair, and in this state, she might give too much away.  Or agree to help Delphine.  This sort of weakness was exactly what had gotten her mixed up in Anders’ mess.

            _“I’m glad it was you.  It was nice to be happy . . . for awhile.”_

            Hawke walked faster.

            Perhaps sensing her mood, Drake kept up without protest.

            Whiterun was only a few hours’ walk from Riverwood, and they reached it just as the sun was sinking over the distant mountains.  The guards at the gate, anonymous behind their helmets, looked them over as they passed, but said nothing.  The residents of Whiterun reacted similarly as Drake and Hawke made their way up the main street and to the market circle.  The inn was obvious, with smoke rising from multiple chimneys and a sign proclaiming it the Bannered Mare hanging over the door.  Townsfolk trickled in, and Hawke and Drake fell in with them.

            While Drake secured them a room, Hawke joined the townsfolk around the fire in the center of the room.  Conversation eddied around her, with talk of the dragons, a war between Imperials and Stormcloaks, with something about Thalmor thrown in, as well as more mundane worries about the weather and the price of wheat.

            “Hey, stranger,” said the large bearded man on Hawke’s left, handing her a tankard of some sort of beer.  “What brings you to Whiterun?”

            “Nothing in particular,” Hawke said.  “Good beer.  Good company.”  She raised her tankard in salute to those around the fire, and they rumbled in appreciation.

            “You from Hammerfell?” the man asked.  Her mouth full of beer—but it wasn’t beer, it was something else, sweet and thick with just the right bite of alcohol—Hawke shook her head.  “That one there with you?”  He gestured at Drake with his tankard.

            “In a manner of speaking,” Hawke said.

            “He’s a mage, isn’t he?” the even larger, burlier man to Hawke’s right said.  “You escorting him to the College?”

            “Would be,” Hawke said.  “If he hadn’t gotten us lost.”

            The men chuckled, and Hawke felt their community expand to include her.

            “You got a map?” Left asked, and Hawke dug it out of her pack.

            “College is here,” he said, pointing to a town far to the northeast.  “Just outside Winterhold.  A day or so’s travel, depending.”

            “Depending?”

            “Weather.  Bandits.  Wolves,” Right said.  “Dragons.”

            “Right, dragons,” Hawke said.  “How did that happen?”

            Drake appeared behind her and handed her a plate of food.  His quick glance around the circle took in the camaraderie, and he gave her a brief nod and retired to a table in the corner.  Hawke stuffed a piece of roasted meat into her mouth and rolled her eyes in appreciation of the flavor.  The men around her chuckled.

            “Nobody knows why they’re here,” Left said.  “They just showed up one day.”

            “Burned Helgen to the ground,” a woman across the circle said.

            “Legend talks of someone who can stop them,” Left continued.  “The Dragonborn.  But whoever he is, he ain’t shown up.”

            “Or she,” the woman interjected.

            Left raised his tankard to her in acknowledgement.  “Or she.”

            Hawke filled her mouth with bread and waited.

            “The Dragonborn can talk to dragons.  He—or she—” Left shot a fond glance across the fire—“can use their own power against them.”

            “What power?” Hawke asked.

            “Words.  They ain’t just fire breathers.  They use words of power to create fire.  Or ice.  Or walls of force.  They can do all kinds of things, and the Dragonborn can do them too.”

            “He can absorb their life force,” Right added.  “That’s how he gets the power to make the words.”

            “But nobody’s found him?” Hawke asked.

            Everyone shook their heads.  From somewhere outside the circle, a lute struck up, a voice close behind it.

            _“Our hero, our hero, bears a warrior’s heart.  I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes.”_

            Left joined in with a rumbling baritone.  _“With a voice wielding power of an ancient Nord art.  Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes.”_

            The rest of the townsfolk joined in, the minor key and undertone of desperation in their voices raising the hair on Hawke’s arms.  _“It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim’s foes.  Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.  For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows.  You’ll know, you’ll know the Dragonborn comes.”_

            The lute wandered into another tune, and a melancholy silence fell over the inn.  Hawke glanced up and caught Drake’s eyes, which looked suspiciously moist.

            _Damn. It,_ Hawke thought, and gave Drake a slight nod.   _I hope I live to regret this._

 


	4. Alduin

            They left Whiterun just at dawn, with as much in the way of trail rations and equipment they could afford with the few coins Delphine had given them.  The keeper of the Bannered Mare had pointed out the fastest road to Kynesgrove and estimated an eight- to ten-hour travel time.

            Hawke was strangely silent as they made their way out of Whiterun and headed north.  Drake’s curiosity regarding her sudden change of heart ate at his gut, but he restrained himself from asking, lest discussing their mission change her mind about it again.  He suspected that the need of the people, which had been so audible in their song last night, had contributed to her reversal.

            They paused at mid-day, perched on a crumbling roadside wall, to consume some of their rations.  Only then did Hawke finally break her silence.

            “How’s it going with your stick?” she asked.

            Drake swallowed the chunk of bread he had been determinedly chewing.  “Magic works differently here than it does in Thedas,” he said.  “I suspect that I will not be able to remake it as I had planned.”

            Hawke frowned.  “Can you use magic at all?”

            “That which is powered by my own energy,” he said.  “I have been unable to tap into the natural magical flows of this land as I can those of Ferelden.  Perhaps it is merely a matter of adjusting my own methods, and perhaps I will never be able to use the energies of Skyrim.  Either way, I am limited to smaller spells for the time being, and my energy must replenish itself naturally.”

            Hawke stared at him for several seconds, then huffed out an exasperated sigh.  “Well,” she said.  “That just figures.”

            “We have crossed dimensional boundaries,” Drake said pragmatically.  “We are not supposed to be here.”

            “You don’t say,” Hawke muttered into her water skin.  They were silent again for the remainder of their respite, but as they set off again, Hawke asked, “You figured out all that stuff in less than a day?”

            Drake chuckled.  “I do have some experience in working with magical energies and ascertaining their limitations.”

            “Yeah,” Hawke said.  “I guess I’m just more used to working with mages who go haring off and do what they want without stopping to think about the repercussions.”

            Her tone was so deeply bitter that Drake gave her a startled sideways look.  He had suspected the veracity of her statement about her lack of romantic attachments, and this statement deepened that suspicion.  A mage, then.  Probably dead, and probably due to his own poor choices.  An unfortunate number of mages died of such causes.  He regretted now not heeding to the stories coming from Kirkwall in the last ten years; likely Hawke’s romance and its unfortunate end was common knowledge that he alone lacked.

            He did not press the issue, and Hawke offered no more insight.  Her statement killed the conversation, however, and they walked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

            They reached Kynesgrove, a tiny hamlet with an inn and a few houses scattered around a mine, a few hours before sundown.  Delphine waited for them on the inn steps, a mug of ale in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other.  She waved as they approached and finished her ale in one quick swallow.

            “The burial mound is on the hill over the town,” she said, nodding in its general direction.  “Let’s go see if my calculations were correct.”

            Despite Drake’s exhaustion—he was used to physical exertion, but the sort of long-term endurance a cross-country hike took he usually left to the young fighters—he followed Delphine, trying to breathe through his nose to suppress the urge to pant.  Hawke did not even appear winded, and Drake envied her.  She was not much younger than he, but had clearly kept in better shape.  Drake supposed that successfully handling waves of crises as well as working alongside the city guard and whoever else she had handled would keep one in peak condition.  Whereas Drake had spent most of his time studying magic, the Darkspawn, history—anything he thought might prove useful in the event of another Blight.

            The cleared area at the top of the hill was covered in disturbed earth, mostly surrounding a crater that looked as though it had burst from within.  Yet the earth surrounding the crater did not appear to be enough to have filled it.

            Drake said as much, and Delphine nodded.  “The dragon’s up.  We’re too late.”

            “Now what?” Hawke demanded.

            “Honestly, I don’t know,” Delphine said.  “I hadn’t considered what might happen if we were too late to find out what was raising the dragons.”

            A low rumble startled them, the earth trembling gently beneath their feet as something nearby made a _hnnf hnnf hnnf_ sound.

            Chills ran up Drake’s arms as he realized that something—something large—was laughing.

            “So,” said a voice in the same low rumble.  “It seems the centuries have not improved the intelligence of the Dragonguard.”

            A nearby boulder, or what Drake had taken for a boulder in the lowering light, unfolded from the ground.  It continued to grow, rising up for dozens of feet, wings opening to block the dim light of the moons.

            “Dragonguard?” Hawke said.

            “Original name of the Blades,” Delphine supplied quickly.

            “But it seems that you have failed in your duties,” the dragon continued.  “For neither of those with you bears the blood of the _dovah_.”  The great wings furled, and the fading sunlight glinted off of scale and horn.

            “Who are you, dragon?” Delphine demanded in a voice that shook only a little.  “Why are you here?”

            “For shame,” the dragon rumbled, its voice like silk over steel.  “How far the once great Dragonguard has fallen if its members do not even recognize the greatest of all the dragons.”

            “Alduin,” Delphine breathed.  “Oh, _shit_.”

            “Indeed,” the dragon said, amused.  “I have returned, and my brothers will soon follow.”

            He spread his wings, and with a downstroke that shook the ground and nearly knocked Drake to his knees, vaulted into the air.  He circled twice, then flew north, disappearing into the gathering dusk.


	5. High Hrothgar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any issues in translation of the dragon language; I did the best I could with the Elder Scrolls Wiki.

            The next morning, they split up.  Delphine and Drake headed north, where they would part ways where the roads to Winterhold and points further west diverged; Hawke headed south, following the road that would lead through the Rift and up to Ivarstead.

            “If you were Dragonborn, I’d send you to the Greybeards at this point,” Delphine had said as they recovered from their encounter over pints of mead.  “I’m not exactly their biggest supporter, but they could train you to use the Voice.  As it is, I’m at a loss.”

            “I will go to the College of Winterhold,” Drake said.  “Perhaps your regional mages can shed some light on this situation.”

            Delphine had looked doubtful, but nodded.

            “These Greybeards know stuff about dragons?” Hawke had asked.

            Delphine nodded.  “They use the dragon language and power.  Their mentor is a dragon, in fact.  We don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on that issue.”

            Hawke suspected that was a massive understatement.  “But they’d be able to give us some idea of why the dragons are back and what we could do about it.”

            “Possibly,” Delphine said.  “More likely they won’t talk to you at all.”

            “What other ideas do we have?”

            “I need to locate Esbern,” Delphine said.  “He’s the archivist for the Blades, but he’s been in hiding for years.  He predicted all of this, and it drove him a bit insane.”

            “So you go look for Esbern, I’ll go talk to the Greybeards, and Drake will go talk to the mages,” Hawke said.  “Is there any reason that we shouldn’t split up?”

            Delphine and Drake exchanged glances and shrugged.  “Not that I can see,” Delphine said.

            “Right, then.”  Hawke downed her mead and went to bed.  The shock and terror of the dragon encounter had left her exhausted and with a nasty headache.

            Now she trekked her way south, following the road’s vague meander east in order to avoid the volcanic caldera and the giants that lived there.  “Stay on the road,” Delphine had said.  “It’s much less likely that you’ll run into bandits or hostile wildlife on the road.  Also, that’s where the hold guards are, so if you do get attacked, you’re more likely to have backup.”

            Being on her own was odd, but also a relief.  At home, she’d always had people around her—friends, yes, but unless she was at home, their presence was constant, their expectations weighing heavily on her, especially after she had earned the title of Champion.  People always wanted things, and they always turned to her to get them.

            _Even Anders._

            She tried to shove those memories away, but there were few distractions on the road besides the occasional fox.  Anders’ passion, his devotion to his cause, had been magnetic.  He was saving people, protecting them from the abuse of power perpetrated by the Templars in Kirkwall, and Hawke had believed in his cause.  He had been the only one to comfort her after her mothers’ brutal murder.  And the same fiery passion that he showed in his pursuit of justice was more than evident in the bedroom.

            _“It was nice to be happy . . . for awhile.”_

            It had been nice.  But like all nice things, it had ended in tragedy and horror.

            The road turned west and began to climb, and Hawke gratefully focused on the growing burn in her calves and thighs as she hiked up the mountain.  The road was basically empty besides a few goats; this Skyrim place was remarkably sparsely populated for a country of its size.  Or maybe Hawke just hadn’t visited the right places.

            She stopped in Ivarstead for a late meal and directions, then headed up the path that the locals referred to as the “7,000 steps.”  Another few hours of hiking, two wolf attacks, and a dead monster thing later, she had reached High Hrothgar.

            The view was breathtaking, but so was the wind, and Hawke ducked inside quickly.  The enormous door boomed shut behind her, and she nearly melted in the relative warmth and quiet of the interior.

            A man in grey robes with a long grey beard and kind eyes approached her with a blanket, throwing it around her shoulders and quietly leading her to a brazier.  Hawke gratefully hunched over it, rubbing the feeling back into her arms.  Another Greybeard brought her a mug of something hot and spicy, and she sipped at it, the heat pouring down her throat and into her belly.

            Finally, a third Greybeard approached.  “What brings you to High Hrothgar, my child?”

            “Dragons,” Hawke said.

            “Ah.”  He nodded, the stood quietly for a moment before gesturing to one of the others, who brought her a chair.  “You are the one whose arrival shook the world.”

            “It did what?”

            “Travel between worlds is not lightly undertaken.”  The Greybeard sank into another chair, folding his hands in his lap.  “Your arrival was noted.”

            His calm understatement startled a laugh out of Hawke, and before she knew it, she was cackling hysterically.  Forcing herself to breathe, she managed to get herself under control, but tears poured down her face.  The Greybeard waited calmly, appearing unfazed by her outburst.

            “I’m sorry,” Hawke said.

            “It is a natural reaction to your ordeal,” the Greybeard replied.  “And that you are here so soon after your arrival indicates that you have had not much time to rest.”

            Hawke shook her head.

            “I am Arngeir,” the Greybeard said.  “I speak for the Greybeards.  How can we assist you, World-Traveler?”

            Hawke poured out the story and their dilemma, pausing only to wet her throat with the tea.  Arngeir listened patiently, his eyes never leaving her face.

            When Hawke finally wound down, Arngeir nodded.  “So it is Alduin.  I had feared as much.  The Nords call him the World Eater, and his appearance is said to herald the end of days.”

            “How do we stop him?”

            Arngeir looked sad.  “You cannot.  Only the Dragonborn has the power to truly kill a dragon by absorbing its soul.  The ability to Shout is crucial to fighting a dragon.  Without the Dragonborn, I fear we are doomed.  Perhaps this is what the Divines have planned for us.”

            Hawke took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Then what can you tell me about portals and travel between worlds?”

            “Only that it is dangerous and nearly impossible,” Arngeir said.  “The mages at the College of Winterhold may toy with such things, but it does not lie within the purvue of the Way of the Voice.”

            Hawke folded in on herself, clutching the blanket around her shoulders.  She allowed herself her weakness, which washed over her in a tide of despair and fear, for the count of ten, then forced herself back upright and met Arngeir’s eyes.  “I’d like to meet your dragon,” she said.

            The only sign of Arngeir’s surprise was a sudden but brief widening of his eyes.  “Who told you about Paarthunax?”

            “Does it matter?” Hawke said.

            “If the Blades have sent you, then indeed it does,” Arngeir said.  “The Blades hate Paarthurnax and are not above sending an assassin to kill him.”

            Hawke shook her head.  “No killing.  Just talking.”

            Arngeir studied her for a moment, then nodded.  “Very well.  I will take you to him.”

            He gave her a warm cloak, and they hiked further up the mountain.  Hawke’s breath was ragged and her head spun, but she forced herself to continue in Arngeir’s wake.  The air was so cold it was hard to breathe, and yet breathing deeply and heavily was the only thing that slowed the spinning in her head.

            Finally they reached a flat spot, where a dragon nearly the size of Alduin perched atop a crumbling wall with odd runes carved on it.

            “Arngeir _fahdon_ ,” the dragon rumbled.  “Who is this _wunduniik_ , this stranger, you have brought to see me?”

            “Paarthunax, this is Hawke,” Arngeir said.  “She has found herself in some trouble and come to us for help.”

            Paarthurnax turned his attention to Hawke, and the weight of his direct regard made her shiver.  She opened her mouth to speak, but the air was so cold her throat dried and closed, and she broke into a fit of painful, racking coughs.

            “I see,” Paarthunax said.  “ _Krosis_.  My apologies.”  Then he spoke three words that Hawke couldn’t make out, as they were drowned out by the crack of thunder that accompanied them.  But a moment later, she was surrounded by warm, still air.  Her next breath didn’t hurt, and the off-kilter feel to the world disappeared.  Her head and stomach both settled, and she stood up straighter, gathering her usual calm and strength around her to face this new dragon.

            “Thank you,” she said.  “I have come to ask about Alduin and the Dragonborn.”  Once again, she told her story, while Paarthurnax regarded her with eyes as large as her head, his only recognizable expression the occasional slow blink.

            “Hrm,” Paarthurnax rumbled when she had finished.  “This is indeed a _kesttiid_ , a difficult time.  You must be commended for accepting this _grahsefez_ , this fated battle, despite the circumstances of your arrival.”

            Hawke waited silently as Paarthurnax pondered.

            “Arngeir is not entirely wrong,” he said finally.  “It is necessary to speak _dovah_ , to fight with words as dragons do, to ultimately defeat Alduin World-Eater.  However, that does not mean that only one person may Shout him down and slay him.”

            Hope rose in Hawke’s breast and made its way up into her throat.  If Paarthurnax joined them, if they had a dragon fighting with them, then maybe they stood a chance.

            “I can only help so much,” Paarthurnax said.  “My _heyv_ , my duty, keeps me here.  But there is another whose _Thu’um_ is strong.”

            “Master,” Arngeir protested, but Paarthurnax turned that inscrutable look on him, and he subsided.

            “Ulfric, called Stormcloak,” Paarthurnax said.  “You may find him in Windhelm.”


	6. The College of Winterhold

            The gatekeeper at the arch to the bridge leading up to the College was less than accommodating.

            “If you can’t master a basic spell,” she said, “at _your_ age,” which she accompanied with a critical eye-sweep down the length of his body, “then you really don’t belong here.”

            “I’m not _from_ here,” Drake tried to explain.  “I have been dimensionally shifted.  I cannot connect to the magic of Nirn.”  Delphine had explained some basic geography and history while they’d traveled.  “I need to talk to the Archmage about the dragons.”

            She was not convinced.  “Go back to Winterhold,” she said.  “I’ll tell him you’re here.  After that it’s up to him.”

            If the bridge had not been lined with obvious magic traps, Drake might have tried to force his way past her.  Instead, he returned to the town proper and acquired a room at the inn.

            He spent the first day in a spirited discussion of magical theory with Nelacar, who was banned from the College for reasons he would not disclose.

            On the second day, he took Nelacar’s advice and hiked a bit south to get a better look at the shrine to Azura.  The priestess of Azura turned out to be a mage herself, and while her view of magic was diametrically opposed to Nelacar’s, Drake still learned a good deal from their talk.

            On the third day, the Jarl’s steward came to the inn and summoned Drake to appear before the Jarl.  From Korir, Drake learned a great deal about the history of Winterhold and the College, including why the people of Winterhold generally resented the mages.

            On the fourth day, Drake began to resent them, himself.

            On the fifth day, a courier appeared in the inn, panting and shivering, and handed Drake a note.  He collapsed at one of the tables near the fire and accepted a mug from the innkeeper while Drake read his note.

            _Scholar last seen in the Rift.  Sending other to find him.  Send word to Sleeping Giant when current mission complete.  D._

            Drake snorted.  _When current mission complete_ _indeed,_ he thought.  _At this rate, that could be years._

            On the sixth day, Drake left the inn with the intention of hiking up to the College and demanding entry, but as he traversed the steps, the air in front of him shimmered, everything turned a pearly grey, and a man appeared.

            “Are you Drake?” the man asked.

            “Yes,” Drake said.  “And you have stopped time.”  He looked around, observing the snowflakes standing still in the air, the guard frozen with one foot up.

            “I am Quaranir of the Psyjic Order,” the man said.  He reached up to push back the deep hood that covered his face.  “I understand you’re having some difficulty with dimensional shifts.”

            “Also dragons,” Drake said.

            “The Mages Guild cannot help you,” Quaranir said.  “And with Alduin blocking the passages between realms, neither can we.  You will have to speak to someone much more powerful.”

            “Who would that be, then?”

            “Hermaeus Mora.”


	7. Riften

            _Scholar last seen in Riften.  Please inquire.  Send news to Sleeping Giant Inn.  D._

            Riften wasn’t far from Ivarstead, and Hawke made the journey in a few hours.  Tired and sweating, she argued with the gate guard over his so-called “gate tax” while the other guard snickered at him, and convinced him to let her through on the condition that she send someone out with some water.  Immediately inside the gate, a huge man with a greatsword strapped across his back abandoned the post he’d been leaning against and loomed over her.

            “I don’t know you,” he growled.

            “No, you don’t,” Hawke said and kept walking, leaving the man glowering behind her.

            The inn was thankfully obvious, a large building in the middle of town, and Hawke entered, pausing to let her eyes adjust.  A modest smattering of townsfolk sat around the common room, and Hawke wound her way through the tables to the bar, and looked up into the oddly spaced eyes of some sort of lizard.

            A lizard with breasts.

            Hawke blinked, trying to wrap her head around a human-sized lizard who nursed its young when it said, “Hey.  Eyes up here.”

            “Um.  Sorry.”  Hawke met the lizard’s eyes again. 

            “Think you’d never seen an Argonian before,” the lizard-person muttered.

            “Really sorry,” Hawke said.  “I wonder if you could help me with something.”

            “Maybe.”  The Argonian didn’t blink, which made Hawke long to moisten her own eyeballs.

            “If someone came to this city to hide out, where might they do it?”

            “You’re new to Skyrim, huh?”

            Hawke squeezed her eyes closed as the muscles in her forehead bunched.  “Is it that obvious?”

            The Argonian chuckled, a harsh rasping sound.  “A bit.  Where are you from?  Cyrodiil?”

            “Mmm,” Hawke said noncommittally.

            “Well, someone comes here to get lost, they likely want to stay lost.  But you might check the Ratway.”

            “The . . . I’m sorry, the _Ratway_?”

            “Under the city.  Rumor has it the Thieves Guild hangs out down there.  Well, what’s left of ‘em, anyway.”

            “But . . . your city’s built on top of a _lake_.  How does it have an underneath?”

            The Argonian just stared at her blankly.

            “Okay, fine,” Hawke said.  “How do I get there?”

            “You don’t want to go into the Ratway.  It’s dangerous.”

            “For the love of the Maker, just tell me.”

            The Argonian shrugged.  “It’s your funeral.  Brynjolf’s the person to ask.  He hangs around the marketplace most days.  If you hurry, you might catch him.”

            “Thank you.  Oh, one more thing.  Could you send someone out to the gate guards with some water?”

            The Argonian didn’t seem to find this an odd request.  “Ran out of mead already, have they?  Sure thing.”

            Hawke nodded, then pushed off the bar and tromped back out into the humidity and swampy smell.

            “Bit light on coin, are you, lass?”

            Hawke turned to see a handsome, brown-haired man eyeing her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  She swallowed hard.

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “Could be I can help you with your problem if you help me out with one of mine.”

            His lilting accent sent a pleasant shiver up her spine.  “I’m really just trying to find someone, thanks,” she managed.

            “Would that someone be hiding in the Ratway?”

            Hawke narrowed her eyes at him.  He gave her a charming grin, and she felt an answering smile starting on her own face.

            _“It was nice to be happy . . . for awhile.”_

            The smile disappeared, clearly startling the man.  “So I’m told,” she said.

            “Well.”  He folded his arms and leaned against one of the supports for his stall.  “Give us the story, then, lass.”

            “He’s going to help us get rid of the dragons,” Hawke said, tired of dancing around the issue.

            The man’s arms dropped back down to his sides, and he stood up straight.  “Oh.”

            “Yeah.”

            He offered her a hand.  “Brynjolf.”

            She shook it.  “Hawke.”

            “I can help,” he said.  “I can get you into the Ratway, even take you past the usual test I put our recruits through.  But I really could use your help with something first.”

            Hawke wasn’t surprised.  Kirkwall had worked in much the same way; everyone always needed her to do everything.  As if their feet were rooted to the floor.

            “A client needs Brand-Shei set up for theft.  All my people are too well-known around here to pull it off.  It’s a simple lift and plant.  And you’ll get paid.  Think you’re up for it?”

            Hawke looked around the marketplace, taking in the few hiding places, the constant foot traffic, the guards posted around the perimeter.

            “Sure,” she said.  “No problem.”


	8. Interlude: Kirkwall

            Cassandra slammed the heavy door to the room she was using as an improvised interrogation chamber behind her, then leaned back against it, letting the stern and angry persona she was using with Varric melt away.  Soft footsteps alerted her to the arrival of Sister Nightingale, and she wearily pushed back up off the door.

            “No luck?” Leliana asked.  Fine lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed the strain she had been under for the last several weeks.

            “None.  He does not know where Hawke is, and his story—which he is telling in great detail—is giving me no clues as to where she might have gone.”

            “The same with Drake,” Leliana said.  “None of the Wardens know anything.  He disappeared from his bedroom in the middle of Vigil’s Keep without a word or a sound.”

            Cassandra took Leliana’s hand.  “We will find them, sister,” she said.  “Not only to stop the chaos, but for your sake.”

            Leliana smiled at her, her eyes regaining a hint of their old sparkle.  “I appreciate your certainty,” she said.  “But I suspect that their return is in the hands of the Maker.”

            “As are all things,” Cassandra said.

            “Yes,” Leliana said, squeezing Cassandra’s hand before letting go.  “All things.”


	9. The Ratway

            Skyrim guards—or, at least, Riften guards—were surprisingly bad at their jobs, and within twenty minutes, Brand-Shei had been arrested and Brynjolf was leading Hawke through a secret tunnel into the Ratway.

            “It’s too bad you’ve got a higher calling, lass,” he said as he pulled the trapdoor closed behind him.  “I could use someone like you in the Guild.”

            “Tell you what, if get rid of the dragons but can’t go home afterward, I’ll look you up,” Hawke said.

            Brynjolf chuckled.  “Good lass.”

            He led her through a room with a deep central cistern, bunks lined up around the room, and several brown-clad men and women studiously minding their own business.  He led her through another door into a tavern, but rather than going into the tavern proper, he turned right and rested his hand on the knob of yet another door.

            “Go through this door, follow the main path, and go through one more door.  That’s the Warrens, and that’s where people tend to hide,” he said.  “Now, you be careful in here, lass.  The people that come here do so for a reason, and they don’t take kindly to strangers.  Stay low, stay quiet, and good luck.”

            He opened the door.

            Hawke slid through, waiting for the door to thud quietly closed behind her, then pulled the shadows around herself and took a few cautious steps into the room.  She stood on a ledge overlooking a tiered room littered with straw and empty bottles.  She eased back into the dark and crept into an even more shadowy alcove, listening carefully for movement, then continued her soft-footed movement toward the hallway in front of her.  As Brynjolf had indicated, the path was easy to follow, though it wound its way down to the bottom of the big room.  The few people wandering the area never saw her, and she slid through the next door into the Warrens.

            An odd, manic singing floated on the air, and Hawke let it wash over her as her eyes adjusted to the dark.  Unlike above, where some light had filtered in from Riften proper, this area was completely dark (and somehow not flooded, though Hawke tried not to think about it too hard).  She slipped past several pungent, scruffy people, including the singer, none of whom noticed her.  Only one of the rooms in this pit had a door, and it was a heavy, reinforced door entirely out of place in the Ratway.

            Hawke tapped on the door, trying to find a balance between getting the occupant’s attention and not alerting the residents of the Warrens.  A slot at the top of the door creaked open, and Hawke whispered, “Esbern?”

            “No,” said a man’s voice, and the slot slammed closed again.

            Hawke heaved a sigh and knocked on the door again.  The slot cracked open again, and Hawke said, “Dragons.”

            There was a long pause, then the clacking sound of locks disengaging on the other side of the door.  Lots of locks.  Hawke waited, keeping an eye on the path behind her in case the noise alerted someone.  Finally, the door opened and Hawke slid through.

            “Dragons, you say?” said the elderly man waiting for her.

            Hawke let go of the shadows, breathing a sigh of relief as her forehead and scalp relaxed.  Her sister, Bethany, had shown her how that particular skill was a form of magic, albeit less flashy than that used by mages.  _No wonder Drake was having so much trouble_.  Remaining unseen was one of Hawke’s strongest talents, and yet it took nearly bit of concentration she had to keep the shadows under her control.

            Hawke sank into one of Esbern’s chairs and told him the whole story, just as she had laid it out for Parthurnaax.  He listened intently, nodding occasionally, then took a deep breath and sat back as her story wound to a close.

            “I told them,” he muttered, half to himself.  “Nobody ever listens to the scholars.”

            “So you’ll help?” Hawke said.

            “Of course,” Esbern said.  “Where are we going?”

            “I don’t know yet,” Hawke said.  “I have to send word to Delphine that I’ve found you, and then—”

            A booming _thud_ from the corridor and the door shook on its hinges.  Esbern shot to his feet, his eyes wild.  “They’ve found me.  You led them straight here!”

            “Led who?” Hawke said.

            Esbern yanked the thin blanket off of his cot, grabbing the dagger that tumbled out before it could hit the floor.

            “The Thalmor,” he said grimly.


	10. Candlehearth Hall

            _Regroup in Windhelm_ , was all the newest note said, and Drake grimly struck out into the bitter cold of Winterhold.  As he departed, Nelacar offered him a new cloak.

            “I spent the last few days enchanting this with cold-resist spells,” Nelacar said.  “I hope you find a way to power your magic soon.”

            “As do I, my friend,” Drake said.  “My deepest gratitude for this gift.”

            Nelcar nodded, and Drake threw the cloak over his shoulders.

            The cloak did its work well; the trek south was less arduous than the corresponding trip north had been.  The fact that the road south had a primarily downhill trajectory did not hurt matters.  Roughly half a day after leaving Winterhold, Drake arrived in Windhelm and settled in at the inn, a two-story building called Candlehearth Hall.  In order to earn the coin necessary to pay for a room, Drake obliged the innkeeper by chopping half a cord of wood.  His muscles protested at first, as he had not had an opportunity to truly work them since his arrival in Skyrim, but he soon warmed up and enjoyed the dull ache that spread through his arms and shoulders.

            Delphine arrived the next day, and Drake bought her a meal and a round of mead.

            “News?” she asked as she warmed herself next to the fire.

            “I was unable to make contact with the Circle—rather, the College,” Drake said.  “I was denied entrance and then ignored for several days.”

            “Disappointing, but not surprising,” Delphine said.  “The College tends to be myopic about anything outside of their own tinkering.”

            “However, I was approached by a man of singular talent,” Drake continued.  “He claimed to be a member of the Psijic Order.”

            Delphine almost choked on a mouthful of bread, but motioned for Drake to continue when he paused, concerned.

            “He said that we must contact someone named Mora in order to collect the information necessary to kill Alduin and return home.”

            “ _Hermaeus Mora?!_ ”

            Several other patrons looked over at Delphine, and she lowered her voice, leaning toward Drake.

            “You’re sure he said Hermaeus Mora.”

            “Yes.  Is there a difficulty?”

            Delphine let her breath out in a rush.  “Well, he’s only a Daedric prince.”

            Drake raised an eyebrow.

            “He— Daedric princes rule the plain of Oblivion,” Delphine said.  “They’re generally considered evil.”

            “I spoke to the priestess of Azura while I was waiting,” Drake said.  “She indicated that Azura is kind and merciful.”

            “Well, her priestess _would_ say that,” Delphine said.  “It’s more complicated, of course.”

            “It always is,” Drake said.

            “Hermaeus Mora is the Daedric prince of knowledge and memory.  It’s said that in his particular corner of Oblivion is every book ever written, as well as those only imagined or considered.  He has access to every bit of knowledge ever gathered by any person in existence.”

            “Amazing,” Drake murmured.  “What I could do with such a library.”

            “But he’s not going to just let you in and give you whatever you want.  Not without a trade.  That’s how Daedric princes work.  And usually they want your soul so that you’ll serve them in Oblivion forever after you die.”

            “That does present a difficulty,” Drake said.  “Yet I was assured that he was our only chance to defeat Alduin.”

            “Well, the Psijic Order doesn’t have a reputation for working with Daedric princes.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  So if a Psijic mage thinks a Daedra is our only chance, then I’m inclined to believe him.”  Delphine took a long drink of her mead and leaned back, propping her heels on the table.  “Hawke’s last note said that Paarthurnax recommended speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, which is why we’re here.”

            “Ulfric?”

            “The jarl of Windhelm.  He’s one of the few people I know of who can use the Voice who isn’t tied to that monstrosity of a temple at the top of that mountain.  He used it to kill the High King, as a matter of fact.”

            “Hence the rumbles of war I have been hearing in my travels,” Drake said.

            Delphine nodded.  “As soon as Hawke arrives, I plan to approach Ulfric and hope that dragons are more important to him than this ridiculous, self-defeating war.”

            “Do you suppose she has encountered difficulty with the scholar?”

            “I hope not,” Delphine said.  “But if she can find him, it’s possible others could.  Others who don’t like the Blades very much.  Let’s hope your friend is as good as she thinks she is.”


	11. The Thalmor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay; I've been really busy.

            “Get behind me and be prepared to run,” Hawke growled.

            “What?” Esbern said, preoccupied with stuffing books and papers into a knapsack.

            Hawke grabbed him by the arm and shoved him behind her, then gripped the doorknob with one hand, throwing the locks with the other.

            “Three.  Two.  One.”  She yanked the door open, then smashed it into the face of the first elf on the other side of it.  Unsheathing her daggers, she rolled forward into a crouch between the next two, slicing outward to hamstring them.  Beyond them, the hall was clear, and Hawke reached back to grab the front of Esbern’s shirt as she got to her feet.  Miraculously, he had followed her instructions, and they darted down the hall and back out of the Warrens, slinking toward the Ragged Flagon.

            “Ah, hello again, lass,” came Brynjolf’s velvety accent as Hawke pushed Esbern out into the tavern ahead of her.  “Trouble?”

            “Something called a Thalmor wants Esbern,” she said, sheathing her daggers.

            Brynjof’s face twisted, losing its usual good cheer.  “Of course they do,” he said.  “Are they still in there?”

            “Probably. I wounded two of them, at least.”

            Brynjolf turned to three others in matching leather armor who had appeared behind him.  They nodded, then slid past Hawke and Esbern into the Warrens.

            “Follow me,” Brynjolf said.  “I’ll show you the back way to the city gate.”

            “Thanks,” Hawke said.

            They made their way carefully out through the cistern, then along the path between the houses and the wall.  Brynjolf checked the main road before ushering them out the gate.

            “Thank you,” Hawke said again, gripping Brynjolf’s arm.  “I’m going to head back toward Ivarstead.  If a messenger comes for us--”

            A man ran up the road past the stables.  “I’ve been looking for you,” he panted.  “Got something I’m supposed to deliver.  For your hands only.”  He fished a note out of a belt pouch and handed it to her.  “Looks like that’s it.  Got to go.”  He jogged away back down the path, leaving Hawke staring after him in bemusement.

            “Never mind,” she told Brynjolf, unfolding the note.  “Looks like we’re needed in Windhelm.”

            “Best of luck, lass,” Brynjolf said.  “I hope to see you again.”

            Hawke looked up at him, allowing a small smile to show.  “I hope so, too,” she said.

            Abruptly, Brynjolf slid a hand behind her neck and pulled her to him, kissing her firmly on the mouth.  Hawke froze for a moment, then relaxed into him.  He wasn’t Anders, she’d probably never see him again, but she could let herself have this moment, this man, to keep her for later, to begin the healing.


	12. The Jarl of Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I haven't abandoned this fic, y'all. I've just had a billion other things going on at the same time. I'm gonna do my damndest to get it done by the end of this year.

            The Palace of the Kings was enormous.  The main hall, despite its rows of tables, was echoingly empty, save for a few people at the far end, near the throne.  One man—presumably Ulfric Stormcloak—sat in the throne, while a large, burly man stood near.  His voice echoed through the hall as he complained about another jarl, but Ulfric’s replies were almost too quiet to hear.

            Delphine had warned Drake that getting Ulfric to listen might be difficult.  “I’m a Breton,” she had said.  “That’s better than being an Imperial or any kind of Mer, but they’ll still be less likely to listen than if I were Nord.  You’re a mage.  The Nords are deeply suspicious of magic.  This isn’t going to be an easy conversation.”

            Drake was used to difficult conversations.  Talking the lords into backing him at the Landsmeet had been difficult.  Negotiating Amaranthine politics had been difficult.  Hopefully this would not be much worse than either of them.

            A small, slender man intercepted them before they had passed the tables.  “I’m Jorleif, Ulfric’s steward,” he said.  “What can I help you with?”

            “We need to talk to Jarl Ulfric about the dragon attacks,” Drake said, pitching his voice so Ulfric would hear him, though he didn’t take his eyes off Jorleif.  The cessation of conversation from the direction of the throne told him that he had been heard.

            Jorleif cast a quick look over his shoulder, and Ulfric gave him a slight nod.  “Very well,” he said, turning back to Drake.  “May I have your names so I may announce you to the Jarl?”

            “Drake, Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden,” Drake said, suppressing a smile as Jorleif’s brows knit.  “And Delphine of the Blades.”

            “Very well,” Jorleif said.  He turned, approached the throne, and bowed slightly.  “My lord jarl, may I present the Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and Delphine of the Blades.”

            “I have never heard of this ‘Ferelden,’” Ulfric rumbled as Drake and Delphine approached the throne.  “Or the Grey Wardens.”

            “Nor should you have, my lord,” Drake said.  “For I am not of this world.”

            Ulfric leaned forward.  “Are you then from Oblivion or Aetherius?”

            “Neither, my lord.  I am mortal, like you.  Merely summoned from my own realm by an accident of magic.  And now I am seeking to help your land with the dragon problem.”

            “A noble endeavor.”  Ulfric sat back again.  “Why come to see me?”

            “My lord, our associate has been to speak to the Greybeards,” Delphine said.  “They claim that you possess the power to Shout Alduin from the sky so that he might be slain.”

            “Really.”  Ulfric’s eyes narrowed.  “Arngeir said that.”

            “No,” said Hawke from behind them, startling Drake.  He spun to find the Champion and an older man, both obviously cold and exhausted, standing behind him.  He had not even heard them enter the hall.  “Paarthurnax did.”

            “And who might you be?” Jorleif demanded.  Ulfric held up a hand, and the smaller man stepped back, grumbling.

            “My lord Ulfric, this is Lila Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,” Drake said.

            “Also from your realm, I take it.”

            Drake nodded.

            “And you’ve spoken to Paarthurnax.  Directly?”

            Hawke inclined her head.  “Yes, my lord.”

            Ulfric rubbed at his beard, his eyes flicking between them as he thought.  Finally, he said.  “What do you expect of me?”

            “We need your help fighting Alduin,” Drake said.  “The Dragonborn has not appeared, but we have fighters, and you have the Voice.  It may be enough.”

            “And how do you expect to find Alduin in order to kill him?”  Ulfric said.  “And how do you expect to keep him from rising again?”

            “For that, we need to speak to one more . . . person,” Drake said.  “We have not yet contacted . . . him.”

            Ulfric’s eyes narrowed.  “Explain yourself.”

            Drake sighed.  “We need to secure the assistance of Hermaeus Mora.”

            Jorleif and the other man next to the throne began shouting at once, drowning each other out.  Esbern grabbed Delphine by the arm and started yelling at her, as well.  Hawke caught Drake’s eye, her face wrinkled with confusion.  He shrugged back at her.

            “ _Enough_ ,” Ulfric bellowed, and the room went silent.  “I understand your concerns.  The Daedric princes are not to be toyed with.  But these are desperate times.”

            “My lord, the war,” the burly man said.

            “The war cannot be easily won while the dragons are a threat,” Ulfric said.  “And if I wish to be high king of Skyrim—”

            “You _are_ high king of Skyrim.”

            “Then I must act like it and protect the realm.”

            The burly man subsided, crossing his arms.  Ulfric returned his attention to Drake.  “I will help,” he said.  “Though any bargains made with Hermaeus Mora must be yours alone.”

            “Agreed,” Drake said.

            “Very well.  Notify me when it is time to play my part.”

            “Thank you, my lord,” Drake said, and turned on his heel.  He took Hawke’s elbow, more to keep her on her feet than to actually guide her, and they headed out of the hall.

            “That was Ulfric?” Hawke murmured, casting glances back over her shoulder.  “Talk about a force of personality.  If we’d had someone like him running Kirkwall, things would have been really different.”

            “Indeed,” Drake replied, and they went back out into the breath-stealing cold of northern Skyrim.


	13. Confessions

"How does one go about summoning a Daedric prince?" Drake asked. The four of them sat huddled around the central fire in Candlehearth Hall's common room, trying to keep their voices down.

"And what  _is_ a Daedric prince?" Hawke asked.  "Why did that name upset everyone so much?"

"The Daedra are demons," Drake said.  "Not unlike what we know as demons, from the Fade."

"Oh. That explains a lot." Hawke took a drink of her mead.

"Indeed," Drake said.  "They reacted much as our people might if you suggested making a deal with a desire demon to save the world."

Hawke nodded, her mind inevitably settling on Anders and Justice. If Justice hadn't started out as a demon, he'd certainly been acting like one by the end--and Anders like any other abomination. It had broken her heart to put him down, but that was what you did to abominations. Especially ones who hurt people and started wars.

"If there were any other way . . ." Drake said, and Hawke looked up, realizing that he'd been watching her carefully. Likely he'd figured out her whole sorry tale by now. She flushed.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll do what needs to be done."

"What does need to be done?" Drake asked, turning his attention to Esbern and Delphine.

"I need to find a place called Sky Haven Temple," Esbern said.  "My research says that those who first defeated Alduin left instructions on how to do it again."

"Where is Sky Haven Temple?" Drake asked.

Esbern shrugged. "Somewhere in the western part of Skyrim," he said. "Probably in the Reach."

"That leaves me to summon . . . him," Delphine said, with a furtive look around the room.

"I will assist," Drake said dryly. "We do not want another accident like the last one."

Delphine blushed to the roots of her hair.

"Accident?" Esbern said.  "It sounds more like fate to me."

Drake and Hawke exchanged glances, but neither said anything. Hawke didn't know about Drake, but she was tired. She just wanted to get this over with so they could go home. Assuming they  _could_ go home.

After an uncomfortable silence, Hawke offered, "I'll go with Esbern. Someone has to watch his back and protect him from the Thalmors."

"Thalmor," Esbern corrected. "The plural and singular are the same."

"Whatever," Hawke muttered into her mead.

"Then it's settled," Delphine said. "Drake and I will handle the magic, Hawke and Esbern can handle the research. We'll stay here; you send word when you know something."

"Understood," Esbern said, then got slowly to his feet. "These old bones are unused to this sort of travel. I must get some rest. Goodnight, all."

The others muttered their goodnights, and Delphine turned in a few minutes later, leaving Hawke and Drake alone. As soon as they were gone, Hawke felt some of the tension easing out of her.

"How are you faring?" Drake asked.

Hawke shrugged. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. You?"

"The same," he said. After another moment he said, almost hesitantly, "Your mage. What did he do?"

Hawke stared at him, her mouth full of mead. Only when it began burning the tissues of her mouth did she remember to swallow. "What?" she coughed.

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "I pieced together some of the tale. You were involved with a mage, yes? And it went badly? He did something foolish and got himself killed?"

Hawke opened her mouth to tell him to mind his own business, then closed it again. After a few breaths and another sip of mead, she said, "He didn't . . .  _get_ himself killed.  I killed him." As if those words had broken a levee, she poured out the whole story--how Anders had taken a spirit of justice into himself, how Justice had driven him to rebel against the Templars and the Circle, how he had tricked her into helping him gather the materials needed to blow up the Chantry. How she had driven a blade into his back, between his ribs, into his heart. How that hadn't been enough to stop the inevitable war.

Drake listened, not speaking, not accusing her of anything, and without pity, but with sympathy. When the words stopped pouring out of her, he said, "I am truly sorry for what you have endured. And for your loss."

"I'm sorry I started a war," she said. "And broke the Circle and the Chantry."

"I spent quite a while in the Circle, myself," Drake said. "I came perilously close to being made Tranquil or thrown in a dungeon. The Wardens' Rite of Conscription saved me. So I understand Anders' plight, and his desire for justice has my sympathies."

"But?" Hawke asked.

"But . . . he was very wrong to use and manipulate his friends and his lover. He was very wrong to kill Elthina and all the other innocents in the Chantry. And I think he was very wrong to accept Justice into himself. Which he did after abandoning his duties and fleeing Amaranthine, by the way."

Hawke leaned back, her eyes wide. Drake gave her a small smile and a nod. "Indeed," he said. "I knew your Anders. I conscripted him. That fire of passion you speak of erupted after Justice; when I knew him, he had a more passive approach."

"What was that?" Hawke asked.

"He escaped. Frequently," Drake said. "I saved him from being hauled back to the Circle yet again when I conscripted him. Then I saved him again later when overzealous Templars tried to kidnap him out from under me. I had no illusions about who and what he was. When he ran away from the Wardens, it was no surprise."

"I knew he was an . . . abomination," Hawke said, her voice low and ashamed. "I thought he would be different. I helped him anyway. I  _loved_ him anyway."

"There is no shame in loving unwisely," Drake said. "Who among us has not?"

"Says the man in love with a Chantry spy," Hawke said, forcing a smile so he'd know she was joking. He smiled back.

"When we return, we should work together to put things to rights," he said. "It is criminal that we had not yet met and worked together."

"Maybe Esbern was right," Hawke said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe it was Fate."

Drake shrugged. "Maybe."

Hawke couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she said nothing. Instead, she finished her mead and went to bed.


	14. The Forsworn

The four of them set out in the morning; Delphine argued that since Hermaeus Mora did not have a dedicated shrine in Skyrim, she should be able to summon him from practically anywhere.

"Sky Haven Temple will be as good a place as any," Delphine said as she paid the carriage driver to take them from Windhelm to Markarth.

"Once we've found it," Esbern said, shuffling through a few loose sheets of paper.

"We'll find it," Delphine said, vaulting into the back of the carriage. "There's only so many places in the Reach that match the description you've given me."

Esbern shoved the papers back into his knapsack and accepted Delphine's hand up into the carriage. "I haven't exactly been out much in the last few years," he said.

Drake climbed into the back of the carriage and offered his hand to Hawke, who took it with a firm, calloused grip and hauled herself into the carriage. She was barely settled when the driver clucked to the horse and the carriage lurched away from the stables. Drake buried his hands in his cloak, hunkering down against the cold. After a week and a half in the north of Skyrim, he felt like he would never be warm again. He thought longingly of Ferelden in high summer, especially in Amaranthine, where the winds over the plains kept the stifling heat at bay. He imagined the warmth of Leliana's arms wrapped around him, the heat of her breath on his neck as she slept curled against his side. It helped, but only a little.

Pressure against his arm and a faint vibration pulled him from his daydreams, and he looked down to see that Hawke had fallen asleep leaning against him, but was shivering, as well. He gently slid his arm from under her head and around her shoulders, wrapping his cloak around her, as well. Nelacar's spells were remarkably effective, and soon Hawke's shivering abated, though she did not wake up. Drake was glad she could get some measure of rest; since the moment they had met, he had sensed tension in her, a constant frustration that had caused her to lash out at him more than once. He suspected that this trip and the responsibilities it thrust upon her, combined with the obviously unhealed trauma she had suffered during the Circle rebellion in Kirkwall, had kept her from getting any real sleep since they arrived. He hoped that their conversation last night had relieved some of that burden.

At some point, Drake dropped off, as well, and he awoke several hours later, the sun sinking toward the mountains that rose up around them. The air was crisp but not cold, and green covered the land instead of white. Delphine and Esbern were still poring over the documents Esbern carried with him, and Hawke was still fast asleep on his shoulder.

"How much further?" Drake asked, pitching his voice low to avoid waking Hawke.

Delphine peered past the driver and began gathering Esbern's documents. "Markarth is just around the corner," she said, "and then it's a bit of a walk to where I think Sky Haven Temple is."

Drake gave Hawke a gentle shake, and she came awake all at once, sitting up and taking in their surroundings with a quick glance. "We're there?" she said.

"Almost." Drake slid his arm out from behind her and adjusted his cloak. She did not appear to notice, but Drake knew she caught far more than she necessarily let on.

"We may have a problem," Esbern said. "Sky Haven Temple is trapped against intruders."

"I'm pretty good with traps," Hawke said.

"I don't doubt it, but the final one requires Dragonborn blood to unlock," Esbern said. "I'm not sure how we're going to get through that one."

"Is that the only entrance to the temple?" Hawke asked.

"It's the only accessible entrance," Esbern said.

"But is it the only  _entrance_ ," Hawke insisted.

Esbern examined his notes. "I suppose if we wanted to attempt to climb a sheer cliff up to the courtyard, there are other doors, but. . . ."

"But there's no way Esbern's up to that," Delphine said.

"I am not sure I am, either," Drake admitted.

"So I'll get up there and see if I can unlock the door from the other side," Hawke said. "I'm a good climber."

"Is there anything you're  _not_ good at?" Delphine asked, an edge to her voice.

Hawke gave her a cool stare. "Suffering fools lightly."

To Drake's relief, the carriage came to a stop before a true fight could break out. The four of them clambered down from the carriage, and Hawke made a brief detour to pat the carriage horse before rejoining the rest of them on the road.

"This way," Delphine said, motioning back down the road. "There's a bridge across the river about a mile up, then we have to circle back down to cross to an island. Watch out for bandits and Forsworn."

Hawke jiggled her daggers in their sheaths to make sure they were ready to draw, then nodded. Drake wished desperately that he had some control over the magic in this place. Even with his sword, he felt defenseless without the assurance that he could freeze his enemies in place with a well-cast ice blast.

They headed down the road, the shadows lengthening before them. Hawke and Drake fell in behind Delphine and Esbern; Esbern was muttering to himself and reading over a sheet of paper covered in arcane markings, probably trying to find a way in that did not necessitate endangering Hawke's life. Though Drake had no doubt that Hawke could do exactly what she said she could do.

They crossed the river and turned south again, then west, leaving the road and working their way over a hill back toward the river valley. At the top of the hill, Delphine suddenly dropped prone, grabbing Esbern's shirt and dragging him with her. Hawke, with her lightning reflexes, followed immediately after, and Drake got down a bit more slowly, looking for what had startled Delphine.

"There's our bridge," she whispered, pointing down the hill.

"Bridge" wasn't quite the word Drake would have used; the crossing was a tangle of rope-and-plank bridges that crossed between the shore, the large island in the middle of the river, and a smaller island north of the big one. A few small huts stood on the near shore, and torches illuminated the entire mess. The bridge-tangle was crawling with people wearing what looked like fur, carrying spears and wearing wild headdresses.

"Forsworn," Delphine whispered. "They're tough and ruthless and attack travelers on sight. And we have to get past them."

"I really wish I had some grenades right now," Hawke muttered.

"I really wish I had some magic right now," Drake muttered back. She touched him gently on the arm, a sympathetic grimace on her face.

"So what's our plan of attack?" Hawke asked.

"It depends on whether this clan has a--" Delphine cut off suddenly and looked up as a shadow passed over. "Back!" she hissed. "Stay down, but get back."

Drake looked up to see an enormous black dragon with red accents hovering over the camp, wings pumping furiously to keep it aloft. The Forsworn shrieked their rage, and spears and arrows arced up toward the beast. It took a breath, its chest expanding, then roared out three words, and with a crack of thunder, fire poured out of its mouth.

A tug on his ankle reminded him that he was supposed to be taking cover, and he eeled backward on his stomach to join the other three on the downslope of the hill. He could not help but peek, though, and so he saw fireballs erupting from a spot on the ground, splashing against the dragon's side. The beast gave a wiggle in the air and stopped hovering, swooping up and circling over the river. The spellcaster came into view, still hurling fireballs after the retreating dragon.

"What in the name of the Maker is  _that_?" Drake breathed.

"Hagraven," Delphine said. "Formerly human. Goes through a ritual to gain more power and ends up looking like  _that_. I really don't want to tangle with her, to be honest."

"I can see why not," Drake said, sinking back behind the hill. Screams and roars indicated that the dragon had rejoined the battle. Hawke peeked over the crest of the hill, winced, and settled next to Drake on her stomach, one of her daggers in her hand.

"I've fought a dragon or two," she whispered to Drake, "but that one's bigger than anything I've tangled with. And probably meaner."

"Meaner than the Arishok?" he asked, giving her a weak grin.

"Definitely. Though I'd put even money on a fight between this dragon and the Arishok."  She peeked again.  "If nothing else, though, I'm getting a good look at the climb I'll have to make."

Drake lifted himself on his elbows to see what she meant, avoiding looking at the bloodbath below. She pointed to their left. "I'm betting that cave is the approved entrance," she said. "And up there is the temple itself. I can do that."

If Hawke was as an accomplished an infiltrator as she was claiming to be, Drake did not see any reason why she would have difficulty with the path she indicated. He did not think that he could do it, but she would be fine. He gave her a nod, and they settled back down behind the hill.

The noise gradually died, and Delphine gasped as the dragon rose up from the camp and flew overhead. As it passed, something hit the ground with a meaty  _thunk_ , and Drake saw a withered arm covered in feathers and tipped with nasty, curved claws instead of fingernails.

"Let's go," Delphine hissed before he had time to process the sight, and they scrambled to their feet and down the hill into the carnage below.


	15. Sky Haven Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm going to finish this thing in the next week or two.

With the Forsworn cleared out, the hike up to the official entrance to Sky Haven Temple was easy. Delphine and Drake took turns making sure Esbern could negotiate the hanging bridges and slightly steep climb to the cave entrance, and they reached it in less than an hour. Hawke had disappeared up the side of the mountain practically before Delphine had got Esbern to his feet. Drake wished her the best.

Drake paused in the entrance to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom; the strategically-placed braziers did little to cut the darkness inside the mountain. A moment after he wondered just who had lit the braziers, anyway, a feral yell echoed off the stone and a young woman in skimpy furs threw herself at him.

"Forsworn!" Delphine yelled, drawing her sword. Drake did not reply, needing all of his concentration to fend off the girl's whirling daggers with his walking stick. Delphine stepped in, sword flashing, giving Drake the space he needed to draw his own sword--just in time to block an attack from another Forsworn on his right. Despite the spareness of their armor--if it could even be called such--Drake found that the Forsworn were difficult to land blows on; they dodged as quickly as Hawke, and seemed not to notice or care when he did manage to score on them. Only when the one he fought dodged the wrong way and Drake sank his blade into the man's gut did he finally cease his berserker attacks and fall. Delphine finished hers off a second later, and they turned to check on Esbern.

"I'm fine," he said, sounding a bit irritable. "I'm old, not dying."

"I'll scout up the tunnel a bit," Delphine said.  "In case there are more."

Drake followed, keeping Esbern just behind him. The Forsworn campsite was just around a bend, and while it looked like more than two had been staying here, there was no sign of more of them.  _Probably were out there with the dragon_ , Drake thought. A bit further on was the first puzzle: three pillars in front of a drop-bridge, currently in the "up" position.

"This one isn't difficult," Esbern said. "Well, none of them are particularly  _difficult_. It's only the last one that's impossible without the Dragonborn. The architects wanted us to be able to get in, after all."

"Quit babbling and tell us the answer, Esbern," Delphine said as Drake examined the pillars. Each side had a symbol, and each pillar had one of the symbols facing out.

"That one," Esbern said, pointing. "The one with the downward-pointing arrow. Just turn all the pillars so that one's facing out."

Drake did so, and the bridge creaked, groaned, and dropped into place.

"One down," Esbern said, heading across the bridge.

The next room had dozens of pressure plates on the floor, each again with one of the three symbols. Drake didn't trust pressure plates, and wished Hawke were here. Or Leliana. Hell, he'd take Zevran at this point. Any of his crew who were good with traps and light on their feet.

"Let me guess," Delphine said. "Step only on the Dragonborn symbol?"

"Clearly," Esbern replied.

"I've got it." Delphine stepped forward onto the first plate, and Drake cringed, waiting for the whole room to erupt in flames or collapse or something.

Nothing happened, and Delphine carefully stepped her way through the room until she reached the pillar on the other side and pulled an attached chain. A low rumble echoed through the room, and she pointed to her right, looking over her shoulder at them.

"A door opened up there," she said.

Esbern and Drake went out into the room, and Drake breathed a sigh of relief when still nothing happened. They hiked up the tunnel, through the newly-open door, and over yet another drop-bridge.

The tunnel opened out into a large chamber, open to the sky but surrounded by rock. A large chest sat near the middle of the room, and on top of it perched Hawke, cleaning her nails with a dagger. A door yawned open behind her, an intricate pattern of grooves on the floor in front of it that Drake guessed was the blood-puzzle.

"There you are," Hawke said, barely looking up from her task. "What took you all so long?"


	16. Alduin's Wall

The climb took Hawke's breath away and left her sore and a bit shaky, but she'd done more difficult climbs up the sides of sheer towers in Kirkwall. Luckily, the old Blades had left an enormous table and some benches in the middle of the temple, and she sank onto one of these now as the others gawked at the wall.

She hadn't taken a good look at it on her way through the temple, but now she gazed at the mural, leaning slightly left and right to see around Drake's tall, thin form.

"Well, it's pretty," she said, pitching her voice to carry to the three standing with their noses practically touching the stone. "But what does it mean?"

"It tells the story of how the ancients banished Alduin the first time," Esbern said. "I hope it gives us some ideas."

"Well, considering he's back, they clearly didn't do a very good job of it," Hawke said.

"That's where I'm hoping Hermaeus Mora will come in," Delphine said. "If anyone knows how to make whatever they did--" she gestured broadly at the wall--"permanent, it'll be him."

_Indeed_ , said a rumbling, hissing voice. All four jumped and turned to see an eldritch horror emerging from the darkness on the other side of the room. Tentacles lashed, eyes blinked. Hawke's stomach turned.

"Hermaeus Mora, I presume," Drake said, his tone as dry as the Kirkwall desert.

_Quite right_. The . . . thing sounded amused, and something about the idea of a creature like this being amused made Hawke's skin crawl.

"I didn't even summon it yet," Delphine muttered.

_Wherever people seek knowledge, there I am. I have no need of elaborate rituals or stone monuments_. Half of the eyes blinked, while the rest focused variously on the four humans.  _But please. Don't let me interrupt. Continue your perusal of the wall._

They looked at each other uncomfortably, then Esbern--with an audible gulp--turned his back on Hermaeus Mora and refocused on the wall.

"This first section," he said, his voice trembling only a little, "tells of the time when the dragons ruled the world. No man could stand against them because of their words of power. Some worshiped them." He touched a large figure, wings spread. "This is Alduin."

"We've met," Hawke said, her tone drier than Drake's had been a moment before.

Esbern moved to the center of the mural. "The goddess Kyne took pity on mankind and granted them the Voice. Three Nord heroes emerged and struck Alduin down."

"How?" Delphine asked.

"It's not entirely clear," Esbern said, "but it looks like they used the Voice and . . . something else." He leaned closer and squinted. "An Elder Scroll?"

"Well." Delphine said. "Great."

"What is an Elder Scroll?" Drake asked.

"Prophetic texts. They're said to have been written by the Aedra," Esbern said. "They're very hard to come by. People spend lifetimes searching for them."

"Maybe that's what we need  _him_ for," Hawke said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the mass of tentacles and horribleness.

A low rumble--agreement? Laughter?--rolled from the corner, but no actual comment. Not turning to look at him--it--them--again took all of Hawke's willpower.

Esbern was not so lucky; he stared over Hawke's head for a long moment before blinking and turning back to the wall. "At any rate," he said, "the three heroes took down Alduin. But these next sections tell of the events that will lead to his return." He touched each section in turn. "The breaking of the staff of chaos. The warp in the west. The eruption of Red Mountain. The Oblivion crisis. And Skyrim's civil war."

"The civil war is the last omen?" Drake said.

Esbern nodded.

"So all of these have now come to pass."

"Essentially." Esbern touched an image of a mountain broken in two. "Skyrim has not yet ripped herself apart, but she is certainly doing her best at the moment."

"What about that last bit?" Hawke asked, pointing.

"The Dragonborn," Esbern said. "The last hope for the ultimate destruction of the dragons."

"So . . . the coming of the Dragonborn was prophesied," Hawke said.

"Yes."

"And everything else on this wall has happened."

"Yes."

"So, why was the wall wrong about this one thing?" Hawke asked.

"That is the question of the hour," Esbern said. "I suggest tampering. Perhaps Daedric tampering."

The skin between Hawke's shoulderblades twitched, but she again resisted turning to look at Hermaeus Mora.

"Then it's a good thing we have a Daedra available to ask about it," Delphine said grimly.


	17. Hermaeus Mora

Reluctantly, Drake turned to face the Daedra, trying not to look at it too directly. He suspected that way lay madness; it could not be good for one's mental stability to gaze too long or too closely upon a god, especially one such as this.

"So?" Hawke said. "Is there a Daedric conspiracy afoot?"

Most of Hermaeus' eyes blinked lazily.  _That would be telling_ , it said.  _I am not in the habit of handing out information for free._

"I'm not in the habit of making deals with demons," Hawke said.

Drake believed that. But he had made a few deals in his own time, made compromises to save lives, and he was not completely averse to the idea.

"What is it you want?" he asked. Hawke whirled to glare at him, but he ignored her.

_Well, now_. Most of the eyes swiveled to focus on him.  _It appears there is one reasonable person in the room. That's such a rarity for your kind._

"Drake?" Delphine whispered loudly. Drake ignored her as well.

_What I want will depend on what you want from me_ , Hermaeus Mora continued as if there had been no interruption.  _Everything has a price._

Drake turned back to the other three, who were all glaring at him. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured for them to join him next to the wall, as far from the Daedra as they could get in this room.

"I do not plan to make a deal," he said. "Not yet. But did you truly expect to summon a demon and get exactly what you wanted with no consequences?" He made eye contact with each of them, and they all looked slightly embarrassed. "In some cases, it may be acceptable to make certain compromises in order to save lives. I have done it myself. However, I have always taken the burden of the deal on my own shoulders rather than allowing any harm to befall my friends or my people." He looked at Delphine. "I will not allow Skyrim to be harmed in any deal I make with this Daedra."

"Skyrim appreciates it," Delphine said. "But the Daedra don't mess around. It's going to want more than you might be willing to give."

"We shall see," Drake said.

"If you get yourself killed or possessed, I'm telling Leliana on you," Hawke muttered.

"As you should," Drake said with a smile. "Let us come to a consensus. We need to know what is in the Elder Scroll that the ancients used to take down Alduin, and we need a way home. I suspect that knowing whether the Daedra conspired to keep the Dragonborn from arriving is a side detail, especially if we can kill Alduin without him. Are we agreed?"

Nods all around.

"Good. Allow me." Drake broke from the group and strode to the middle of the room to face Hermaeus Mora.

_Are you ready to negotiate, then?_ it asked.

"We are," Drake said. "We need the contents of the Elder Scroll depicted on the wall behind me. And we need a portal back to our realm."

Drake was not sure how, but the mass of eyes and tentacles gave the distinct impression that it was interested.

_Back to your realm? Then you are not of Nirn?_

"No," Drake said.

_Interesting_. Silence for a long moment, and then,  _I can give you what you seek. For a price, of course._

"Of course."

_For your first request, knowledge for knowledge. I will give you access to the Elder Scroll and you will give me access to your mind. I will copy your memories and knowledge into one of my books._

"And for the portal?"

_Once you arrive back in your own world, you will build a shrine to me._

"I hear and understand your terms," Drake said. "One moment."

He returned to the other three on the wall dais. "Well?" he said.

"I don't like it," Hawke said. "I don't like the idea of a demon rooting around in your mind, and I don't like the idea of building it a shrine in Thedas."

"Nor should you," Delphine said. "Shrines give Daedra power. It might not need one to manifest in Nirn, but build one in Thedas, and it has a toehold in your world."

"Does it, though?" Drake asked, shifting so that his back was fully to Hermaeus Mora and lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "The magic is completely different. The structure of our dimensions is completely different. We do not have an Oblivion."

"We have the Fade," Hawke said. "It sounds to me like it's pretty much the same thing."

"Similar, perhaps, but not exact," Drake said. "It is entirely possible that a shrine will do it no good."

"And it's entirely possible that a shrine will allow it to connect Thedas to Oblivion and completely destroy everything we know about magic, the Fade, and the afterlife," Hawke whispered back.

"I have faith in the Maker," Drake said. "I do not believe He would allow the unmaking of the world. After all, this thing--as powerful as it is--is still just a demon. I have seen, and fought, more powerful demons than that."

"I really don't think you have," Hawke said. "I'm terrified that you're underestimating this thing and you're going to break the world."

"If anyone has a counter-proposition, I would like to hear it," Drake said. "And I mean that seriously."

They stood in silence for several minutes. Finally, Esbern shook his head. "I think it's offered the most reasonable deal possible," he said. "It didn't ask for your soul. That's a standard for Daedra. It didn't ask for a temple or insist on worship or anything that would definitely open Thedas to its influence. Just something that might."

"Unless he knows something we don't," Hawke said.

Drake snorted. "It is a demon of knowledge," he said. "I am certain that it knows something we do not."

Hawke heaved a sigh. "I still don't like it. But it seems we have no choice if we ever want to go home. Or, you know, save Skyrim."

Drake looked at Delphine, who shrugged. "I protect the Dragonborn for a living. You're the closest thing we have right now. If this is what you two think we should do, I support you."

Drake nodded once, then turned back to Hermaeus Mora, closing the distance between them. "Very well," he said. "You have a deal."

_Good_. Again, the thing managed to give off an air of extreme self-satisfaction. Drake's stomach lurched, but he kept his discomfort from showing on his face.  _The knowledge you seek is within my realm of Apocrypha. There is only one way for living mortals to enter. You must travel to Solstheim and read one of my Black Books._

"More traveling?" Hawke moaned from behind him. "How far is Solstheim?"

"A day's sail from Windhelm," Delphine said. Hawke let out another frustrated moan.

"We will see you in Apocrypha, then," Drake said. "Farewell, Hermaeus Mora."

_Until next we meet, Drake of Thedas,_ it said, and faded into a swirling purple-and-black void.


	18. The Northern Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'd promise I'm going to finish this by the end of the month, but my promises to finish have been about as accurate and reliable as a certain high epic fantasy author's (who shall not be named), so I'll just say here's a new chapter and I hope to have another one around Monday.

 

Another cart ride across the breadth of Skyrim. Drake felt as though his rear was getting flat from all the sitting, his spine jolted out of alignment by the rough stone roads, his ears burning with the tense silence that surrounded the three of them.

Esbern had decided to stay at the Temple, claiming he was too old to take this journey and wanted to study the Wall more. Drake suspected that it was primarily the Wall that kept him, as well as his displeasure at the idea of traveling to Apocrypha. Hawke was still angry—not the fiery rage of anger she had displayed so often on this endeavor, but a slow, smoldering anger that warned him that if anything went wrong, she would put her blade in his back as quickly as she had put it into Anders’. Delphine was somber; she had clearly not wanted to accompany them to Solstheim, either, but had been concerned for their safety—and probably what else Drake would give Hermaeus Mora should he be left alone with the Daedra.

Drake understood all of their concerns. He also trusted himself not to fall prey to a desire demon, even one whose temptation was cerebral knowledge, not carnal. And should he lose himself in the Daedra’s library, he trusted Hawke to prevent him from doing something truly foolish. Even if it meant killing him.

They took ship at the Windhelm docks, boarding the _Northern Maiden_ early the next morning. Delphine sat near the bow, watching the sea flow under them. Hawke found a sailor with his own pair of daggers and they sparred fiercely up and down the deck, the other night-watch sailors cheering them on. Only when Hawke disarmed him so forcefully that one of his daggers went spinning into the sea did they stop, panting and red-faced, but with grins of camaraderie and a fight well fought. Drake was too far away to hear, but it looked like Hawke apologized for the loss of the dagger, and the sailor assured her that he had others. She clapped him on the back and sheathed her own, wandering toward the stern, fluffing her sweat-soaked hair with her fingers.

Drake sat quietly, working to touch the magic of Nirn, which remained stubbornly out of his reach. He could see it when he closed his eyes, a sparkling blanket of force that enveloped everything. Skyrim was awash with magic, even more so than Ferelden. But not a bit of it bent to his will, or acknowledged his efforts whatsoever. He had not been so frustrated since he was a Circle apprentice, struggling to cast the most basic of spells. More, he felt as though a part of him was missing; in Ferelden he could call fire from the sky. Here, he was merely a man who could make his hands glow. From a dark place inside him, he desperately envied Hawke, whose skills were primarily with blade and agility, neither of those blunted by the change in the magical atmosphere.

Land came into sight and the sailors scrambled to their posts, bringing the _Northern Maiden_ in to dock with an impressive precision. Drake, Hawke, and Delphine disembarked onto a wooden dock that stretched straight into the middle of the oddest city Drake had ever seen. The architecture was vastly different from anything he had seen in Skyrim, even odder than the dwarven ruins of Markarth. Even the armor on the guards was strange, and Drake prevented himself from gawking through sheer force of will.

A well-dressed Dunmer separated from the group in the small marketplace and approached with purposeful steps. He planted himself squarely in the path of the trio and folded his arms.

“I don’t recognize you lot, so I’ll assume this is your first visit to Raven Rock,” he said, his red eyes flicking between their faces. “State your business, outlanders.”

Drake presumed that admitting they were planning to attempt to contact a Daedric lord would not be well-received, so he was relieved when Delphine answered for them.

“We have friends in the Skaal village,” she said. “We’re just passing through.”

The Dunmer gave them one more look-over, then nodded sharply and stalked off.

“Okay, we’re here,” Hawke said. “Now what?”

“Now we figure out where a Black Book is,” Delphine said. “There are rumors of a dark elf mage who lives in the southern part of Solstheim, and chances are he’ll know where to start looking.”

“Do you know how to get there?” Hawke asked.

“More or less,” Delphine admitted. “I’ve spent most of my time researching dragons, not daedra or daedric artifacts.”

Hawke sighed. “Well, in that case, let’s do what any smart traveler would do.” She pointed to a nearby building. “Let’s ask the innkeeper.”


	19. Tel Mithryn

The innkeeper at the Retching Netch not only knew who Delphine was talking about, he had a slew of stories about the mage, Neloth, that would have made Hawke’s hair curl if she hadn’t faced worse back in Kirkwall. Neloth’s brand of necromancy was nothing compared to that flesh golem thing Orsino had turned into during the Kirkwall Rebellion. And it was likely that the innkeeper’s stories were wildly exaggerated, anyway; they usually were.

After restocking their water and trail rations, the three of them headed south out of Raven Rock into the ashy wastes. Hawke wrapped a length of cloth around her lower face to keep the ash out of her mouth and nose and loosened her daggers in their sheaths. Who knew what kind of monster would live in this ash-blasted land? Because there would be monsters.

There were always monsters.

They encountered the first ones not far outside the city, at a burnt-out homestead, creatures of ash and fire, struggling their way out of the dust to come at the travelers with red eyes and rock swords. Hawke and Delphine fought them off with blades while Drake guarded their backs in case more sprouted out of the ash. Hawke could sense his growing frustration with his lack of magical ability, though he was a passable swordsman and not a dead weight in the group by any means.

They continued south for about an hour and then turned east, following a road so covered in ash it was barely a track. In the distance, across the water, Hawke could see the source of the ash, an enormous volcano that blotted out a chunk of the horizon and then more of the sky with its continuing eruption. By the time they reached Neloth’s settlement, which looked like a crop of overgrown mushrooms more than an actual set of buildings, all three were covered in grey flakes.

Just outside the main . . . mushroom, a young mage-robed Dunmer greeted them, shaking the remains of a spell from his hands. “I’m Talvas,” he said. “What brings you to Tel Mithryn? I hope you don’t want to talk to Master Neloth. He doesn’t usually like visitors.”

"That’s exactly what we were hoping for,” Delphine said. “We need his help to fight the dragons.”

Talvas looked doubtful. “I don’t know how he could help you with dragons,” he said. “Master Neloth is very focused on enchanting and daedric artifacts, not on Nord monsters.”

“ _Nord_ monsters?” Delphine said. “So you haven’t seen any dragons here?”

Talvas shifted his weight. “Well . . . yes, okay, there have been dragons here. But they haven’t bothered us. They mostly fly around the mountains to the north.”

“Look,” Hawke said, yanking the cloth from her face to tuck under her chin. “We have it on really good authority that in order to defeat the dragons we need a Black Book. We have it on further authority that Neloth can tell us where to find one. We’re tired, we’re thirsty, we’re covered in ash, and we really don’t want to argue.”

Talvas stared at her, then at Drake, his mouth slowly dropping open. “You’re. . . . Where are you from? Your magical signatures are all wrong! How. . . .” He stepped past Hawke and circled Drake, who watched him with one eyebrow raised. “You’re completely out of tune with the energies of Nirn! I’ve only ever seen that in conjured creatures!” He grabbed Delphine by the shoulder, then let go quickly when she twitched toward her sword. “How did you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Delphine said. “And we’re trying to get them home, but to do that we need to kill the dragons, and to do _that_ , we need to talk to Neloth!”

“Yeah! Of course. Okay. Hold on.” He sprinted toward the tower and disappeared through the door set in the side of the mushroom stem.

Awkward silence descended, and then Drake said, in a voice as dry as the ash that surrounded them, “Nice kid.”


	20. Master Neloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously in this timeline, Miraak isn't influencing Solstheim, though that doesn't mean he isn't still active in Apocrypha....

Master Neloth was clearly less than interested in talking to them, and he did not bother to attempt to disguise his impatience with their presence. Delphine explained what they needed yet again, and only when Hermaeus Mora’s name was mentioned did Neloth perk up.

“You’re looking for Black Books,” he said.

“Probably just one,” Delphine said, “but yes.”

“I have a scholarly interest in such things,” Neloth said. “I may know the location of a few of them, but I have a request.”

“Of course you do,” Hawke muttered, and Drake laid a hand on her shoulder. He knew how she felt; everyone always wanted something in return, even when he was trying to save the entire world. But there was no sense in antagonizing the one man who could give them the information they needed to access Apocrypha.

“When you’ve finished with it, bring it back to me,” Neloth said. “And if you’re willing to find more of them, I’ll pay you for your time.”

“We’ll see,” said Delphine diplomatically.

Neloth beckoned them over to a table, where a map of Solstheim was spread out and held down with various crystals. “I’ve located at least three,” he said. “One is in the ruins of the Temple of Miraak, here.” He pointed. “One is in the Dwemer ruins of Nchardak over here, but it’s sealed in a case that I haven’t yet been able to open. And one is in White Ridge Barrow, over here.”

“It looks like the Temple of Miraak is the closest,” Delphine said. “You said ruins, though. How hard will it be to access?”

“I had part of the site excavated before ash spawn killed all my workers,” Neloth said. “Finding good help these days is simply impossible. But they did manage to reach a door, so getting in will not be a problem. Finding the book may be more difficult.”

“Who was Miraak?” Drake asked.

“He was a Dragonborn during the last age,” Neloth said. “He’s long dead now, of course, but he had a great deal of power. Until the dragons destroyed his temple and he just . . . disappeared.”

“Interesting,” Drake murmured.

“That seems to be our best bet, then,” Delphine said. “We’ll return with the book when we’ve acquired it.”

“Good,” Neloth said. “I look forward to it. Now please leave; I’m very busy.” He stalked off, and Drake’s hand tightened on Hawke’s shoulder as he felt her muscles start to bunch.

They left the same way they’d entered, taking turns using a magical lift to float back down to ground level.

“So it’s pretty much straight north,” Delphine said. “If he’s been excavating, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Though apparently it’s surrounded by ash spawn,” Hawke said. “And dead bodies, cause I bet he didn’t bother to give the poor saps a decent burial.”

“Wait!” Talvas raced down the ramp from the door to the mushroom tower, a staff in hand. He held it out to Drake. “I’m willing to bet you’ve been having trouble with magic,” he said. “This is pre-charged; anybody can use it, even non-mages.”

“What does it do?” Drake asked, pointing it idly out in front of him. A fireball exploded from the end of the staff, pushing Drake back onto his heels and setting a small mushroom on fire.

“It’s a staff of fireball,” Talvas said.

“By the Maker, warn a person!” Hawke exclaimed.

“Well, I didn’t expect him to just start waving it around!” Talvas protested.

“My apologies,” Drake said, but he had the sensation of filling up; he was no longer helpless, no longer completely unable to do magic.

“It has about fifty charges on it before it needs a soul gem to recharge,” Talvas said. He handed over a crystal. “I’m not sure if you’ll be able to do that, but here’s a filled soul gem just in case.”

“My thanks, young Talvas,” Drake said. He planted the butt of the staff in the ash at his feet and leaned on it to test its physical strength in case he needed to use it as a quarterstaff. “This will be quite helpful.”

“You’re welcome!” Talvas said cheerfully. “Just don’t tell Neloth. He hates it when I touch his things.”

Hawke smothered a chuckle, and Delphine’s eyes danced with mirth. Drake kept his expression as respectfully serious as possible. “You have my word,” he said.

The three turned and hiked back out into the ash, and Drake was not certain that they were entirely out of earshot when Hawke let out a full-throated laugh.


	21. The Temple of Miraak

As they hiked up the hill toward the crumbling pillars marking the location of the temple, Hawke counted at least four dragon skeletons scattered around the hill, and suspected there were more just out of sight behind the curves of the land. None of these dragons where quite as big as Alduin, but they were not small, either. Hawke had fought several dragons, but none this size, and her belly filled with dread at the thought of facing one with just her daggers, with no magical backup, without Sebastian and his incredible accuracy with the bow, or Varric with his repeating crossbow.

At the top of the hill, a tunnel opened into the ash and dirt, shored up along its length with wooden supports, descending back into the hill in a spiral. Wordlessly, Delphine pulled a torch from her pack and lit it with a striker, then headed down into the tunnel. Drake and Hawke exchanged looks and followed her.

The wind had howled across the top of the hill and whistled around the pillars, but the sound of it disappeared as soon as they entered the tunnel. Hawke’s ears rang with the sudden lack of noise, even their footsteps muffled in the dirt-ash floor. About ten feet in, the ash thinned out and revealed a dark grey carved stone floor that matched the walls. At the bottom of the tunnel was a door, intricately carved with a hatchmark pattern.

Delphine pushed the door open and they stepped into yet another tunnel, this one wider and with a stone roof rather than a shored dirt one. Doors led off the tunnel into rooms, where evidence of ancient life had been abandoned—tables, chairs, braziers, even one table that looked more like an altar.

About halfway down the tunnel, Hawke whispered, “wait!” Delphine froze, one foot in the air. Hawke pointed to the floor, where a conspicuous round pressure plate waited to unleash some sort of trap on the unwary traveler. With a nod of thanks, Delphine adjusted her stride and stepped around the plate instead of on it.

Their footsteps were the only sound in the hall, and Hawke noticed Delphine and Drake had adopted a sort of shuffle to minimize even that noise. Hawke herself had extensive training in walking silently and had automatically dropped into silent stalking without quite realizing she had done it. Clearly, they were all more freaked out by this place than they were willing to admit to each other.

After what felt like hours, they came to a massive central chamber with a pit in the center, several of the pillars that had once supported the roof crumbled or otherwise fallen over. Piles of rubble lay around the room, and what looked like sarcophagi lined parts of the wall and several of the still-standing pillars.

The sound of a sarcophagus lid hitting the floor sent Hawke’s heart into her throat, and she automatically wrapped the shadows around her, stepping back into a dark corner, out of the light of Delphine’s torch.

“What in the name of the Maker was that?” Drake hissed.

A raspy cough from the other side of the room followed the echoes of the earlier bang.

Delphine drew her sword. “Draugr,” she said grimly.

“What-er?” Hawke said, still hidden.

“No time to explain; here it comes!”

A dried-out husk of a corpse ran around the side of the pit, battleaxe in hand, and charged directly at Delphine. Gathering the shadows more firmly about her, Hawke circled around it, angling to hit it from behind just as it reached Delphine. Instead, a blast of fire from Drake’s staff blew the thing off its feet, and it collapsed in a burning heap.

Hawke dropped the shadows and stared at Drake, who had a disconcerting grin on his face.

“I apologize?” he said.

“Let’s hope it works on this one,” Hawke replied as another, more heavily armored, corpse ran at them. This time, the fireball staggered it, but didn’t kill it outright. Hawke hamstrung it and Delphine lopped off its head. Sensing something behind her, Hawke dropped and rolled, giving Drake space to blast yet another walking corpse, which collapsed immediately. A long moment of quiet followed, during which no more bangs, coughs, or sound of dry running feet echoed through the chamber.

“Shall we?” Delphine asked, sheathing her sword.

“We shall,” Hawke agreed, sliding her daggers back into their sheaths. Drake still had a slightly silly grin on his face, but his posture was more relaxed than it had been since he’d realized he had no magical power here.

“Okay, the quick explanation for . . . those?” Hawke asked, gesturing at the bodies on the floor.

“Draugr. Dead Nords, interred here thousands of years ago. There’s a belief that these are the remains of those who served the dragons rather than opposing them and they’re cursed,” Delphine said.

“Gross,” Hawke remarked. “Are we likely to run across many more of them?”

Delphine shrugged. “These types of ruins tend to be crawling with them. There’s a reason why we rarely come down into barrows and such.”

“Great,” Hawke said. “Let’s go.”

The rest of the temple was a warren of traps, lever-opened doors, and more of the draugr, but never so many that the three were overwhelmed. Fire worked well against them, and Hawke wondered if Talvas had known they would face these.

Finally, at the bottom of a rough-cut tunnel, in an eldritch chamber, on a central plinth, stood the Black Book. Its binding was leathery without being quite leather, and Hawke didn’t particularly want to know what it was bound in.

“Now we read it?” Drake asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “And the act of reading is what will transport us to Apocrypha?”

“That does seem to be the general idea,” Hawke said.

“Well, then.” Drake leaned his staff against the pillar behind the plinth and picked the book up. He seemed to shudder as his hands wrapped around it, and then, with a deep breath, he opened the book.


	22. Waking Dreams

Sickly green light blinded him, and then faded to reveal a world of blacks. Black latticework walls, black floor, oily black water surrounding his arrival point. Drake clenched his hand around his fire staff, which had somehow made the journey with him, and looked up into the glowing green sky.

The platform on which he stood was isolated, the only piece of solid ground for dozens of feet. On each side of the platform was an arch, and in the corners were piled papers, rotting books, and scrolls. But he could not see how deep the water was, and had no desire to step out into it to reach the other platforms and walkways he could see across it. The Maker only knew what was in that water, but if the rest of the architecture was any indication, it was black and had tentacles.

Hermaeus Mora had brought him here. Hermaeus Mora could get him off this platform. He planted the butt of the staff between his feet, rested both hands on it, and waited.

He had just slid into a half-trance, a habit he had developed while fighting the Darkspawn that allowed him to get a few minutes of rest without actually going to sleep, when one of the walkways swooped sinuously toward him, connecting to the northern archway on his platform with a low _thud_.

Drake waited a moment to be sure it was not going to move again, then stepped onto it. It was completely covered with the same latticework that had framed his platform, and the floor was covered with loose pages that occasionally rose and swirled in a breeze that came from nowhere. The sound of his own footsteps came to him as if from a great distance away, or through water. The whole place felt unreal.

The walkway opened into another platform, this one much larger, with another book on a plinth in its center. He approached cautiously, glancing around for any threats before reaching out to touch the book.

Eyes and tentacles erupted into the air in front of him, and he took two steps back and raised the staff before his brain caught up with his reflexes. He lowered it when he realized that blasting Hermaeus Mora in his own realm would be equal parts incredibly stupid and completely useless.

“Aaaaah,” Hermeaus Mora intoned. “You have arrived. Wonderful. So many of my would-be disciples never manage to reach my Books, let alone my realm.”

“I have no wish to be your disciple, demon,” Drake said. “I merely wish to save this realm and return to my own. Let us complete our deal.”

“Very well.” The mass of tentacles and eyes withdrew slightly from the plinth. “Open the book.”

Drake stepped forward and flipped open the cover of the book, as big as the Black Book that had brought him here but bound in blue. The first few pages were blank, and Drake raised an eyebrow at one set of eyes.

Then he jerked forward as a sucking sensation pulled at his mind, dropping his staff and catching himself on the plinth with both hands before he toppled over. The book drew him toward it, and thoughts and memories flashed across his mind almost faster than he could process them. Words appeared on the page in a bold copperplate, appearing to pour out of his eyes and onto the page. His heart thundered in his chest and his breath came in heaving rasps. Sweat poured down his face and splashed on the pages, only to immediately evaporate.

Then it was over, and he staggered backward, gasping for breath. The book continued to fill with words for several seconds, then closed itself and his name emblazoned itself across the cover in gold.

“Wonderful,” Hermaeus Mora said again, and the book disappeared. “Such an interesting life you have led. Here is the information regarding Alduin you seek.” An enormous scroll, encased in white enamel, appeared on the plinth. “Out in the world, only those with training and special powers may read an Elder Scroll, but here, knowledge is available to all those who seek it.”

“Which means I cannot take this with me and return. I must read it here,” Drake said.

“Indeed.”

Drake picked up the scroll, which weighed much more than he expected. He laid it back down on the plinth and pulled the scroll out of the casing with a smooth motion.

It was unlike any reading experience he had ever had. He did not read so much as absorb, and understanding without words flooded him. The heroes on Alduin’s Wall had used a shout they called “Dragonrend” to force Alduin out of the sky so they could kill him. But he had not died; rather, he had been send forward in time. To now.

The scroll snapped back into its casing when he let go, and he straightened, blinking away afterimages. “ _Joor zah frul_ ,” he whispered to himself.


	23. Interlude: On Guard

Drake’s eyes met the words on the page, and he went still. Not still like he was concentrating, but perfectly still, not an eyelash flickering, barely breathing. Hawke got the distinct sense that he wasn’t entirely inhabiting his own body.

“So that did it?” she asked, trying not to show her concern. “He’s in Apocrypha?”

“It appears so,” Delphine said, glancing over her shoulder toward the tunnel behind them.

Hawke tilted the book toward her so she could also read it and join Drake; no way was she letting him face whatever horror was in that particular plane of Oblivion alone.

Nothing happened.

“Um, Delphine?” Hawke said, her voice cracking. “I can’t . . . go.”

“You’re reading the book?”

“I’m trying to! The words are all. . . . What language is that, even?”

“I don’t see anything on the page at all,” Delphine admitted.

Hawke grabbed Drake’s shoulder and shook him, but while he swayed under her touch, he didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge her. She raked her fingers through her short hair and began pacing the small room.

“He shouldn’t be in there alone!” she said. “You saw him when we were negotiating with Mora. He might be talked into anything!”

“I think he’s smarter than to be talked into _anything_ ,” Delphine said, “but I understand your concern.”

“Maker-blasted mages!” Hawke railed. “They always think they know the best thing to do and it always ends up getting everyone fucking _killed!_ ”

Delphine didn’t say anything.

Hawke pulled in a deep, ragged breath. “Okay,” she said. “What can we do? Find another book?”

“By the time we reach one of those other books, he could be back,” Delphine said.

“Right, and I don’t want to leave him here alone,” Hawke agreed. She bit her lip, then nodded sharply. “So I wait. I’ll be here when he gets back, and we’ll deal with whatever happens together.”

She folded her arms and leaned against a pillar, her attention focused on Drake, waiting for any sign that he was coming to.

And she waited.


	24. Apocrypha

“Walk with me,” Hermaeus Mora said, and began drifting vaguely deeper into Apocrypha. Drake picked up his staff and followed, not seeing that he had any choice, since he did not know how to leave this realm.

“I know nothing of the reason why your Dragonborn might not have appeared,” Mora said as they proceeded. “The last Dragonborn betrayed his cause and served the dragons, then began harvesting dragons to fuel his own power.”

“Miraak,” Drake said. “I have been told part of his story.”

“The part you probably were not told was that he struck a bargain with me,” Mora said. “In exchange for the words of power that allowed him to subjugate dragonkind, he pledged his fealty to me. Before death could take him, he was imprisoned here, with a Dragon Priest to guard his temple.”

“We fought some draugr on the way in,” Drake said, “but no Dragon Priest, so far as I can tell.”

“It makes no matter,” Mora said. “The Dragon Priest is not what kept him here. I am. I tell you this to prevent you from asking me to release him. While he is Dragonborn, he would not aid you in your quest except to use it to gain more power. As soon as it was expedient, he would betray the lot of you. Alduin would be the ultimate conquest, but whether Miraak would kill him or merely subjugate him I do not know.”

“And if Alduin does not die, we do not go home and Skyrim remains in danger,” Drake said.

“Exactly,” Mora said. “Which brings me to the second half of our bargain. Until Alduin is defeated, even I cannot open the portals between worlds. Manifesting in your realm was the most I could manage, and even that was difficult. Defeating him is in the best interest of everyone, including the daedra.”

“I understand,” Drake said. “I do have one question, however.”

“Ask,” Mora said. “If the answer requires a payment, I will tell you so.”

“How will you know where to send us? The magic resonances of Thedas are remarkably different from those of Nirn. I doubt we are even in the same universe, and it is a miracle that Delphine was able to call us here in the first place.”

Mora paused for a moment, though he did not cease his forward movement, and Drake continued to keep pace with him. “You resonate with the frequency of your home,” he said finally. “You have solid form here only through the strength of the Blade’s spell. I will be able to match your resonances with those of your home through the veil and send you back.”

Something about that did not sit quite right with Drake, and he tucked it into the back of his mind to work at.

Meanwhile, they had walked into an enormous room, the walls lined with every book imaginable. Here, the green-and-black of Apocrypha melted away, giving way to warm oak tones and the glimmering jewel tones of the spines of thousands of dyed-leather-bound books. Drake let out a breath.

“Ah, this is better,” said Mora, but his voice resonated differently than it had a moment before, and when Drake looked at him again, he was not a mass of eyes and tentacles, but Warden-Commander Duncan. His eyes were green instead of brown, but otherwise, his old mentor and friend—however short-lived that relationship had been—stood before him.

Drake took a step back.

Mora took no notice, but strode further into the library. “Most of Apocrypha is what mortals expect to find in a realm of Oblivion,” he said, his voice a curious blend of Mora’s languid drone and Duncan’s soothing tenor. “I appear as they expect to see me. But for those who do not require such theatrics to appreciate my true offerings, I see no reason to maintain them.”

“Why Duncan?” Drake managed.

Mora looked at him with some surprise. “My apologies,” he said. “I chose one of your memories, but perhaps I chose poorly. Is this better?” He shimmered and shifted in a gut-wrenching green mass, then reformed as Leliana.

“No,” Drake said. “That is not better.”

Mora frowned. “Mortals are so unaccountably squeamish,” he said, Leliana’s lilting accent combined with the echo of Mora’s true voice grating across Drake’s nerves. He shimmered once more and Hawke stood in front of him.  “I have no time to cater to your whims. This is the form I will keep.”

“Fine.” Drake turned away to look up at the shelves again.

“All of the knowledge ever gathered, every book ever written, every book anyone has considered writing, all of them are here,” Mora said. “Anything you could ever hope to know is contained here.”

“For a price,” Drake said.

“Of course. But some find that price worth paying.”

“I doubt you have anything here that I need to know,” Drake said.

“Are you? So you already know how to defeat the Darkspawn once and for all? How to reverse the Rite of Tranquility? How to cure lyrium addiction in Templars?”

Drake turned to stare into Mora/Hawke’s bright green eyes. He/she grinned at him, that playful, mischievous grin that he had only seen on Hawke’s face once or twice, but of which he fully believed she was capable when not weighed down with the death of her lover.

“You have all of that here?” Drake said.

“Not yet,” Mora said. “But it is only a matter of time now. I have your memories, your knowledge, and I know where your home is. The shrine you have promised me will speed things along, but it is not required for me to gather everything ever known in and about Thedas, as well.”

Drake felt as though he had been punched in the chest. He had given a demon more powerful than any he had encountered in the Fade unfettered access to Thedas and promised it more. A small part of him had hoped that Mora would never know if he did not build the shrine in Thedas, but that hope was dashed now.

Mora smirked at him as if discerning his thoughts. “You could fix every problem currently plaguing your land,” he said. “With the knowledge I offer, nobody would ever need to suffer again. No mages would need to be imprisoned in the Circle. None would suffer the Rite of Tranquility. The conflict between mages and Chantry could be resolved, finally.”

“But at what cost?” Drake whispered.

“Just you,” Mora said. “No one else would need to pay the price for this. And you would not even pay it until after your death.”

It was tempting—no, beyond tempting. The desire to help, to _fix_ , burned in Drake’s chest like a brand, taking his breath away. But Mora had already displayed a cunning beyond Drake’s expectations, using him as a gateway to Thedas before the physical portal had been opened. This would not stop with Drake; if Mora were allowed access to Thedas, he would find more disciples. Drake had spent more than enough time in the Circle to know that few mages would be able to resist a promise like this.

_I stand in the gap,_ he thought. As a Grey Warden, it was a position he was more than used to. One day he would sense his death approaching and descend into the Deep Roads to assist the Legion of the Dead in their endless quest to prevent the Darkspawn from reaching the surface. His purpose was to protect Thedas from threats, not to open it to more.

“Thank you for the offer,” he managed. “I’d like to return to Solstheim now.”

Anger flashed briefly across Mora’s face, then cleared. A sunny smile that was entirely out of place on Hawke’s visage replaced it. “Of course,” he said. “Unlike some of my brothers, I do not coerce, merely offer. We will speak again when you have defeated Alduin, Grey Warden. Until then.”

The library disappeared, and Drake stood staring down into the Black Book, whose cover seemed to writhe in his hands, and he dropped it as though he had been burned.


	25. Letting Go

“Drake!” Hawke lunged forward and pulled him into a fierce hug. The hour or so that he had been gone had been one of the longest of her life. Just as she started to be embarrassed about her impulsive move and pull away, he startled her by hugging back just as tightly, burying his face in her shoulder.

“Drake?” she murmured into his hair.

“Apologies,” he said, releasing her. “That was . . . vile. But I have the words of power the ancients used to defeat Alduin.”

“I tried to follow you, but I couldn’t read the book,” she said.

“I suspect Mora wished to speak only to me, as the one he saw as most likely to be corrupted,” Drake said. “But he does not know what a Grey Warden is and what we are for.”

“The Grey Wardens are often criminally underestimated,” Hawke said. She had done it herself, once upon a time, back when Lothering was on fire and she and her family were fleeing for their lives. She hadn’t then understood the layers of politics and deception that had gone into the Grey Wardens’ inability to stop the blight from taking her home. Anders—she swallowed hard—Anders had explained some of it to her, having gotten the information from his time with Drake and the new order Drake had worked to rebuild.

And she had done it again, just now, half-expecting Drake to sell out all of Thedas in a fit of intellectual gluttony. She gave his arm a brief squeeze before releasing him altogether.

“So, now we give the words to Ulfric, and then go dragon hunting?” Hawke said.

“I suppose,” Drake said. “Do you have any idea how to find a specific dragon, Delpine?”

Delphine shook her head. “I’m hoping Esbern has turned something up in the last couple of days,” she said. “He’s supposed to leave word at Candlehearth Hall if he finds anything.”

“If we have to, we can hike back up and talk to Paarthurnax,” Hawke said. “Though I’d need more clothes this time. It’s _cold_ up there.”

Drake chuckled, and Hawke flashed him a wry grin. Something about him seemed different, more melancholy, maybe. She wondered what had happened in Apocrypha, but wanted him to tell her on his own time. The part of her that blamed her own failure to push Anders for details of his plan for the destruction of the Chantry and Anders’ death nagged at her to demand answers from Drake, but the part of her that knew Drake was not Anders and trusted him more than she’d trusted almost anyone in her life kept her silent.

“It looks like this tunnel leads back to the entrance,” Delphine said, gesturing to the door they hadn’t entered through. “It should be faster than going all the way back through the temple.”

“Well, where was this door when we were coming _in_?” Hawke complained, but it was a good-natured complaining. She felt as though she had been carrying a hundred-pound weight and about twenty-five pounds of it had been removed.

“Probably behind a hidden trap-door,” Delphine said. “That sort of thing is pretty common for these ruins. We wouldn’t have known it was there when we came in, and we wouldn’t have been able to get through even if we did.”

“Hmph,” Hawke grumbled, but from the twinkle in Drake’s eye knew he wasn’t fooled by her bluster. He stuffed the Black Book into his pack, wiping his hands on his robe after touching it. “Well, let’s go, then.”

The sun was sinking below the horizon when they emerged from the temple, so they hiked back to Tel Mithryn as quickly as possible, handed the book to a minimally grateful Neloth, and bedded down in the servants’ quarters for the night. The next day, they walked back to Raven Rock and boarded the _Northern Maiden_ just before she set sail back to Windhelm.

This time, Drake and Hawke sat together on the poop deck, cross-legged, knees touching, as he told her all about his trip to Apocrypha, what he had learned, and Mora’s deception. She shuddered at his description of Mora borrowing her face.

“It sounds horrible,” she said. “But it sounds like you handled it as well as you could under the circumstances.”

“I put Thedas in danger, though,” he said. “More than I intended.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” she said. “Really, he’s just another desire demon. We have so many already. There’s no Oblivion in Thedas, just the Fade, and it’s full of demons. How much more of a threat could he be than they are? Won’t he be bound by the same rules as other Fade demons?”

“I do not know,” Drake said. “I hope you are right. If you are not, however, I may have doomed Thedas to extinction.”

Hawke took a deep breath and let it out thoughtfully. “I think,” she said slowly, “that you did the best you could. We need to kill Alduin. We need to go home. Mora is the only one with the power or impetus to make that happen. As I understand it, there are far worse daedra we could have dealt with.” She reached out and took his hand, his much-bigger palm engulfing hers. “We’re heroes. Our choices are never easy. But we make them, and then we suffer the consequences and try to mitigate the harm to others.”

“That we do,” Drake said. “As you did with Anders.”

Hawke’s initial reaction was a violent mental rejection of that statement; she hadn’t mitigated the harm, she had only helped it along. But her time here had given her some distance from the situation, and she knew he was right. Anders had lied to her. She had honestly thought she was helping him free himself of Justice. She knew poisons, not magical potions or explosives. She had trusted Anders completely, with everything she was, and it had been his choice to use that trust and their relationship, not hers. She had fought to repair the damage he caused, but it was too much for one person, even the Champion of Kirkwall.

_I chose the best route I could with the information I had. And I took on the consequences of those actions. I lost my best friend and lover. And when I get back, I’ll keep fighting to fix it._

She didn’t realize she was crying until Drake reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Sorry,” she sniffled. “Getting a bit maudlin here.”

“I do not judge,” Drake said. “We have both seen and lost so much. And there will be more when we return. But now we do not have to face it alone.”

“No,” Hawke agreed. “We don’t.”

The _Northern Maiden_ kissed the dock, and the sounds and smells of Windhelm washed over them. Drake got to his feet and offered Hawke his hand. “For now, let us do what we can to be sure we _do_ return.”

Hawke took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Sounds like a plan,” she said.


	26. Windhelm Revisited

They split up at the dock, Hawke and Drake going to see Ulfric and Delphine checking for messages from Esbern at Candlehearth Hall. Ulfric had several petitioners waiting at the long table in the center of the hall, so Hawke and Drake got in line; Jorleif saw them and nodded. By the time only one person was left in front of them, Delphine had arrived. She slid into the empty seat next to Hawke and handed over a much-folded piece of paper, larger than the notes Delphine had sent during their initial flurry of information-gathering.

“It appears the dragon in question has taken refuge in Sovngarde, from where he is blocking the passages between worlds and feasting on the souls of the dead to gain power. In order to kill him, the warriors must travel to Sovngarde and slay him there. It is possible that a portal to Sovngarde exists in the Velothi Mountains, but its exact location and the means to travel there are unclear.”

Hawke refolded the note and handed it back to Delphine.

“Not a man of few words, is Esbern,” Drake remarked.

“He likes precision,” Delphine said. “But he’s given us yet another obstacle to overcome. How do we travel to Sovngarde without, you know, dying.”

Jorleif’s voice rang out through the hall. “Drake, Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Lila Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. Delphine of the Blades.”

“Good memory,” Hawke noted as they got up and approached the thone.

“A jarl’s steward must be possessed of a good memory,” Ulfric rumbled. “So that the jarl does not need to be. Though you three are impossible to forget. Has the time come?”

“I have acquired words of power that will bring Alduin down,” Drake said. “And we have located him.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“It seems he has taken refuge in Sovngarde,” Drake said. “We were just discussing how we might travel there, besides the usual route.”

Ulfric cracked a smile. “Indeed. I would prefer not to die just yet.”

“Esbern has sent word that a portal may exist in the Velothi Mountains,” Delphine said. “But it seems to be unreachable on foot.”

“These words of power,” Ulfric said. “What precisely do they do?”

“They force the knowledge and understanding of mortality on the dragon,” Drake said. “The dragon becomes so disoriented it can no longer fly.”

Ulfric stared at Drake. “That is a terrible thing to inflict on a dragon,” he said. “They are immortal, even as bones in the ground. They cannot die unless slain by a Dragonborn. Who created such a thing?”

“Those who fought Alduin in the Mythic Era,” Drake said. “Paarthurnax taught them to Shout, and they created this Shout on their own.”

Ulfric stood silently examining the three of them for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “I will accept the words from you, Lord Commander.”

“ _Joor zah frul_ ,” Drake said.

Ulfric winced. “A wicked thing,” he said. Then he whispered, “ _joor zah frul_ ,” barely loud enough to be heard, but it shook the foundations of the palace.

“Now we figure out how to get to Sovngarde,” Hawke said, just as the doors of the palace burst open and a guard half-ran half-stumbled in.

“Dragon!” he gasped. “There’s a dragon outside!”


	27. Skudalfn

Weapons in hand, the warriors of Windhelm poured out the main gates, led by Ulfric himself, an evil-looking red-and-black longsword in his hands. Midway down the bridge to the stables, the group paused in confusion as they realized that the dragon was sitting peacefully in the road, not attacking, and Ulfric dropped his sword and ran toward the dragon.

“Oh,” Hawke said, sheathing her daggers. “It’s Paarthurnax.” She sauntered after Ulfric, leaving Drake and Delphine to stare at each other.

Delphine turned to the mix of city guard and Stormcloaks and raised her hands. “False alarm,” she said. “This dragon isn’t hostile. He works with the Greybeards. Go about your business.”

The group did not immediately disband, but Delphine and Drake headed down the bridge after Ulfric and Hawke.

“ _Wunduniik_ ,” the dragon was saying to Hawke as they caught up. “It is good to see you again. You seem to be feeling better.”

“I am, thanks,” Hawke said. “It’s good to see you, too. I hope you’re here to help?”

“I am,” Paarthurnax said. “Circumstances require my involvement, as reluctant as I am to fight my fellow _dov_. Without a _dovahkiin_ with the power to command and slay dragons, we must all join to stop the World Eater.”

Drake stepped forward and proffered a bow to the dragon. “Greetings,” he said. “I offer our collective thanks for your offer of help.”

Paarthurnax blinked slowly. “You, then, are Drake,” he said. “The other _wunduniik_.”

“What did he just call you?” Delphine said.

“Traveler,” Hawke supplied. “The Greybeards referred to us as world-travelers.”

“I am,” Drake said. “It is a great honor to meet you, Paarthurnax.”

The dragon inclined his great head, then turned his attention to Ulfric. “A messenger appeared at High Hrothgar from a scholar calling himself Esbern,” he said. “He indicated that Alduin has hidden in Sovngarde, and that transportation to the temple at Skudalfn would be appreciated.”

“It would be, indeed, master,” Ulfric said. “Thank you for coming.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How did Arngeir react to this decision?”

Paarthurnax laughed, quick shallow _chuffs_ that made his sides heave like a bellows and blew snow up from the road in front of him. “He was displeased,” he said. “As he is with all things regarding you.”

“I regret the manner of our parting,” Ulfric said. “But my duties lay elsewhere.”

“As mine do now,” Paarthurnax said. He examined the small group at his feet, then the larger group huddled on the bridge just past the stables. “I can carry two of you, and another _dov_ may be persuaded to take the other two, though he may not stay to fight.”

“Will you?” Hawke asked.

“I will protect you from other _dov_ at the temple, but I cannot cross into Sovngarde with you,” he said.

“Are we ready to go?” Hawke asked the others. They all looked at each other, then Delphine nodded once.

“We know where we’re going. We have the Shout to weaken Alduin. We have someone to Shout it. We have warriors to fight him once he _is_ weakened. I think that’s as prepared as we can get.”

“I wish we had an archer,” Hawke sighed. “I suppose Drake’s fire staff will have to be our ranged weapon.”

“ _Pruzah_ ,” Paarthurnax said. “I will summon Vuljotnaak. Stand back.”

The four humans retreated to the bridge, the huddled group of guards and Stormcloaks moving even farther back, and Paarthurnax raised his head. His voice was a roar, accompanied by a crack of thunder, shaking the ground under Drake’s feet. Everyone stared expectantly at the sky until a fainter roar echoed over the mountains and a brown-and-red dragon soared in from the west. He landed on the road next to Paarthurnax, snow lifting and swirling with the force of his weight striking the earth.

“Paarthurnax,” he said, his voice a more tenor rumble to Paarthurnax’s baritone. “I might have known you would be aiding humans again.”

Paarthurnax said something back in the dragon language, and the two dragons proceeded to have a heated conversation in the tongue. Finally Vuljotnaak snorted and turned his head away, glaring at the humans.

“He has agreed to carry you,” Paarthurnax said, “but not to interfere beyond that. He is still afraid of Alduin’s power.”

“As you all should be,” Vuljotnaak interjected. “If we are to do this, let us do it quickly. Alduin knows more than you can guess.”

“Ulfric and Hawke should ride Paarthurnax,” Drake said. “Since you are already acquainted. Delphine and I will ride Vuljotnaak.”

“This is highly irregular,” Delphine muttered as Vuljotnaak crouched and Drake helped her onto his back. “A Blade riding a dragon. It just isn’t done.”

Drake nearly made a sharp comment about performing summoning spells when one was unfamiliar with the magical theory behind them, and how that “wasn’t done,” as well, but refrained. He hauled himself onto the dragon’s back behind her, adjusting his robes to protect his legs from the beast’s spines and scales. Paarthurnax took off first, with an accompanying whoop of excitement from Hawke and a full-throated laugh from Ulfric.

“Hang on, little humans,” Vuljotnaak said, gathered himself, and sprang into the air. Delphine’s shriek was less delight and more terror, but Drake was exhilarated. He had spent far too much time underground; it was only right that he also spend some time in the air.

The dragons circled once and then soared south, adjusting their trajectory for the peaks rising under them.

“Dear gods,” Delphine said. “You can see all of Eastmarch and the Rift from here. This is amazing.”

Drake could only agree, taking in the panorama spread beneath them. In what seemed like far too short a time, a massive structure appeared beneath them, rising from the floor of a small, sheltered valley and climbing up the cliff behind it. The dragons landed in a courtyard at the base of the structure, and draugr boiled out of the building and the smaller surrounding towers. The dragons Shouted, breathing fire at them, giving the four some space to dismount and ready their weapons. Then they took off again, Vuljotnaak flying away as fast as his wings would carry him, Paarthurnax rising to meet the three dragons who closed in from nearby peaks.

These draugr were larger and more heavily armored than those they had fought in the Temple of Miraak, and as it turned out, they could also Shout. More than once during the fight, Drake found himself thrown off his feet, gasping for breath as the air was driven from his lungs. The fire staff worked just as well against these as they had against the Temple draugr, however, and Drake threw fireball after fireball at them, taking care not to hit any of his allies.

“This way!” Ulfric bellowed, waving that black sword over his head and gesturing toward a crumbling set of stairs. The four ran for it, fending off draugr all the way.

“Where do they keep _coming_ from?” Hawke panted as they scrambled up the stairs. Ulfric lagged behind, turning to Shout at a group of six draugr who were closing in on them, blasting them with frost and slowing them long enough for Drake to set them all aflame.

At the top of the temple, light blasted up from a circle on the ground, and a rag-draped figure floated in front of it, a mask over its face. It reached out and plucked a staff from a stand in the rock, and the light from the portal died.

“What in the name of the Maker is that?” Hawke said.

“Dragon Priest,” Delphine replied. “Like draugr but worse.”

“I assume we will need to kill this one in order to enter the portal,” Drake said.

“With pleasure,” Ulfric said, and unleashed his own fire breath, catching the priest’s robes. It shrieked and flew at him, but was quickly overcome by the collective efforts of the four of them.

“We got more draugr coming up from behind!” Delphine yelled.

“Into the portal! Now!” Ulfric snatched up the priest’s staff and ran up the stairs overlooking the portal, jamming the butt of the staff back into its hole. The portal, which Drake could now see opened from an intricate pattern of rock below them, flared back to life in a blast of silver light. Without pausing, Ulfric leapt from the pillar into the portal.

“Victory or Sovngarde!” he bellowed as he fell, then disappeared into the light.

“Do we have to pick one?” Hawke yelled over the hissing of the portal and the dragon battle still raging over their heads. “Cause I’d rather not.”

Delphine followed Ulfric without a word, disappearing just as he had.

Hawke sheathed her daggers and held her hand out to Drake. “Together?” she said.

“Always,” he replied, taking her hand, and they plunged into the light.


	28. Sovngarde

“It’s a lot more foggy than I expected,” Hawke said. They stood on a hill overlooking a valley—or it would be overlooking, if they could see anything.

“This is wrong,” Ulfric said. “The stories about Sovngarde speak of a great hall of rest and merriment.”

“I’m sure it’s around here,” Delphine said. “It’s just . . . well, foggy.”

Drake tucked the fire staff into the sheath across his back and headed down into the valley. Hawke followed him. There really wasn’t anything else to do. Delphine and Ulfric trailed after them.

Not far past the hill, a man in Stormcloak colors appeared out of the mist and gaped at them. “My lord Ulfric,” he gasped. “Is Skyrim lost, then?”

“No,” Ulfric assured him. “I am not dead, but here to slay Alduin.”

The man cast a nervous glance up toward the barely-visible stars. “He’s terrible,” he whispered. “This fog is his doing, to keep us from reaching the Hall of Valor. He comes out of nowhere and . . . eats our souls.”

Ulfric looked grim. “I remember you,” he said. “From Darkwater Crossing. You died in the attack on Helgen.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “I’m Gunjar. Damn dragon killed me, and now he won’t let me join my ancestors.”

“Come with us, Gunjar,” Ulfric said. “We will see you safely to the Hall.”

Gunjar fell in behind them, and they continued through the valley, the mist raising goosebumps on Hawke’s arms. Everything was eerily quiet, almost what Hawke might call “too quiet” if she were actively trying to call down catastrophe. They walked until another hill rose before them, and faint singing could be heard.

“The Hall of Valor. It’s close,” Ulfric said. He pushed past Hawke and Drake, Gunjar trailing after him, and started up the hill.

The fog broke near the crest of the hill, and a bridge made of bones loomed over them. Hawke stopped to stare, taking in the arc of the spine over the chasm below, the massive ribs curving down under the spine or up over it, depending on their seemingly random placement. What might have been a mouth once rested open on the hill, and within it stood a Nord man, bare-chested, his lower body clad in leather armor, a warhammer slung across his back.

“Hold! I am Tsun, tasked by Shor to guard the Whalebone Bridge,” he called, his voice ringing across the hill and echoing through the valley. “What brings you, wayfairers, to wander here in Sovngarde?”

“We seek to destroy Alduin World-Eater,” Ulfric said.

“A grim task,” he said. “But one which must be accomplished. No few of the honored dead have chafed to bring down Alduin since he began hunting these lands, but Shor has not allowed it. Perhaps he foresaw your arrival.”

“May we enter the Hall?” Ulfric asked.

“By what right do you request entry?”

“By right of conquest,” Ulfric said. “I am Ulfric Stormcloak, High King of Skyrim.”

Tsun cracked a smile. “I believe there is one within who would have words with you, Ulfric King.”

“I welcome the opportunity to speak with Torygg again,” Ulfric said. “I regret the necessity of his death.”

“And the rest of these?” Tsun asked.

Ulfric clapped Gunjar on the back and drew him forward. “Gunjar died in Alduin’s first attack on Skyrim,” he said. “He died valorously in battle.”

Tsun inclined his head. “Be welcome, warrior,” he said.

“Hawke and Drake have traveled from another world to rid Skyrim of Alduin’s threat,” Ulfric said. “They are also heroes and have sacrificed much to protect Tamriel.”

Tsun examined them for a long moment, then nodded again. “Be welcome, warriors,” he said. Hawke let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Tsun turned to Delphine. “And you, Breton?”

“Delphine,” she said. “I am leader of the Blades, the ancient order who protected those of dragon blood.”

Tsun nodded, then addressed the group at large. “Traditionally, only Nords and those who worship Shor and sacrifice their lives in battle may enter the Hall of Valor, but traditionally, only the Dragonborn can defeat Alduin.”

“The Dragonborn has not yet appeared,” Delphine said. “We’re taking up his quest.”

“It seems tradition must occasionally be relaxed in order to protect both Tamriel and Aetherius,” Tsun said. “All things must change, even, occasionally, the dead.” He took a long step to his left, opening the path through the whale’s mouth and onto its spine. “Shor grant you victory, warriors.”


	29. The Hall of Valor

The Hall was full yet not full; it seemed to Drake that it would always be large enough to accommodate those who dwelt within its walls without ever seeming either crowded or sparse. A great cheer arose from the occupants as Ulfric entered, and he appeared dazed as he looked over the crowd.

“Torygg,” he murmured, just loud enough for Drake to hear. “And there’s Olaf One-Eye. And Ysgramor. And . . . by the gods, that’s Jurgen Windcaller.”

“Are you well?” Drake asked, barely louder than Ulfric’s own voice.

“It is quite overwhelming,” Ulfric said. “But I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

Three Nords split off from the rest of the group, and Drake recognized them from the Dragon Scroll. Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, Hakon One-Eye, and Felldir the Old had been the ones to banish Alduin. They approached the group on the stairs, though only Hakon had the grace to look slightly abashed.

“Greetings, heroes,” Felldir said. “We looked for your coming.”

“Because we messed up,” Hakon said bluntly. “Skyrim’s predicament is partially our fault, and we apologize.”

“Not mine,” Gormlaith grumbled. “I said we shouldn’t use an Elder Scroll.”

“Well, after you fell to Alduin, we didn’t have much of a choice,” Felldir snapped back.

Gormlaith crossed her arms and looked away from Felldir. Hakon rubbed his forehead.

“Hi,” Hawke said. “And you all are . . . ?”

“These three banished Alduin,” Drake said. “Gormlaith, Hakon, and Felldir.” He pointed to each in turn.

“Our apologies, again,” Felldir said stiffly. “We have been awaiting the return of the Dragonborn so we may assist him in finally defeating Alduin.”

“The Dragonborn never arrived,” Delphine said. “We’re all Skyrim has got.”

The three ancients looked dumbfounded. “Never showed up?” Gormlaith said. “What happened?”

“We still don’t know,” Delphine said. “But Ulfric, Hawke, and Drake are here to help.”

“Me, as well,” Gunjar said, his jaw jutting forward. “Alduin killed me. I’ll fight and take my revenge.”

“If only it were that easy,” Felldir said. “Shor has prevented us from fighting Alduin, or he would be dead and buried by now. None who dwell in the Hall are allowed to fight.”

“Until the Dragonborn arrives,” Hakon said. “Then, we three alone are allowed to venture forth.”

The mortals looked at each other, then Hawke said, “Do we count, collectively, as a Dragonborn? Or are we on our own here?”

After a moment, Felldir said, “Shor is not here to ask.”

“Yet if Alduin is not stopped, here and at this time, then the world is in peril,” Hakon said. “I don’t believe he would expect us to stay our hand.”

“But the Dragonborn could still arrive,” Felldir said. “We may be punished for failing to heed his commands.”

“One of the Daedra indicated that preventing the arrival of the Dragonborn was a daedric plot,” Drake said. “He may never appear.”

The three looked at each other again, and then Gormlaith drew her sword. “I, for one, will not stand by,” she said. “Not when we have a chance to make right our previous failure.”

“Nor I,” Hakon said.

Felldir nodded. “Then I will join you, and we will suffer any consequences together.”

Hakon clapped Gunjar on the back. “Rest now, brother,” he said. “You will be avenged.”

The three pushed past the four, heading out into the fog. Ulfric and Delphine followed.

As Drake passed Hawke, he heard her sigh deeply. “And still no archer,” she murmured, and Drake’s startled laugh rang through the Hall.


	30. Dragonrend

Hawke felt measurably better about the fight surrounded by warriors, especially three who had already fought Alduin once. She would still have liked to have an archer or some other raged weapon besides Drake’s fireballs—those made her nervous—but she supposed that with Dragonrend to bring Alduin within reach of their swords, daggers, and hammers, they would manage.

“Ulfric,” Hakon said. “I understand you have training in the Voice.”

“I do,” Ulfric said.

“Do you know the Clear Skies shout?”

“Indeed. It was often necessary to clear the Throat of the World in order to visit Paarthurnax.”

“Good. The shout works on this unnatural fog, and clearing it will get Alduin’s attention. We four will Shout together.”

The three heroes and Ulfric stepped forward under Tsun’s watching eye and took a collective breath. Their combined Voices shook the ground and half-deafened Hawke; she clapped her hands over her ears belatedly. The fog wisped away, revealing rolling hills and a sky full of color. Hawke gawked up at the purples, blues, and greens flowing across the sky, the clearest constellations she had ever seen behind them.

“Do you think the Maker’s realm is this pretty?” she asked Drake, slightly embarrassed by the wistful tone to her own voice.

“I am sure it is better,” he said.

“Have you spent much time in the Fade?”

“My share,” he said.

“Is it all horrifying and nasty and  . . . brown? Cause that’s all I saw when I was there.”

“The areas closest to the human realms are tainted,” he said. “The denizens shape their realms according to what they see in our dreams, and our imaginations are capable of great beauty, but also great corruption.”

“It’s more than our imaginations,” Hawke said, but the last was drowned out by a distant roar and a crack of thunder. The mist rolled back in. “Sounds like we got his attention.”

“It does, indeed.”

The four Shouted again, and the response was faster this time, and nearer. Hawke drew her daggers and moved closer to the Nords, keeping an eye on the sky. The mist eddied violently, caught between the wills of Nord and dragon.

Then it eddied in the wind of a dragon’s wings as Alduin, as large and black as Hawke remembered, flew overhead. Her stomach clenched and her skin went cold.

“Here he comes!” Felldir yelled. “Prepare Dragonrend!”

Alduin banked and turned, passing overhead again with a draconic scream that unleashed a torrent of fire onto the field in front of them. The Nords responded with a resounding Shout that caught Alduin unaware. He twisted midair, flapped ineffectually, and landed with a _thud_ that shook the world. He was shouting in the dragon language, clearly furious, but couldn’t seem to lift his wings.

“We’re up,” Hawke said, and she and Drake ran toward the dragon, Delphine close behind. The ground under her feet shook continuously as the Nords kept up their assault with Dragonrend, giving Alduin no time to recover and take flight again. Alduin breathed fire, but his target was the Nords, and Hawke, Drake, and Delphine were unscathed, though Hawke could feel the heat from twenty yards away.

As Hawke approached the dragon’s head, he whipped his neck at her. She dodged, slid under his neck to his shoulders, and stabbed upward with all her strength. A swipe with a foreclaw knocked her sideways but didn’t pierce her leather armor. She staggered to her feet in time to see a blast of fire from Drake and a wave of cold from Ulfric’s Shout catch Alduin on either side of the head; he shrieked and reared, giving Hawke an opening. She dove under him again, digging the daggers into his belly. Rather than gutting him, she only managed to open what looked like minor wounds.

 _Damn dragon hide,_ she thought. She rolled again, making it out from under him before he could drop the full weight of his body on her. She ran a few yards away and turned to watch the fight, looking for another opening.

The Nords had him well and truly pinned. Red weals scored his black hide where Drake’s flames had struck. A deep gash showed muscle where Delphine’s blade had caught him. He was sagging, his Shouts weaker, his wings barely clearing the ground.

Hawke took all this in in a few seconds, then saw her chance as his foreleg shifted forward slightly. She flipped her daggers in her hands so the blades rested against her forearms and ran at him. Her left foot found his ankle, her right the meaty part of his upper leg, then her left met his spine. She ran along his neck, sliding astride just behind his head, and stabbed with both daggers as hard and deep as she could, straight into his eyes.

Alduin shrieked, rearing back, but Hawke gripped with her thighs and knees and held on. She used his own momentum to shove the daggers deeper, then ripped backward with all her might.

Alduin collapsed, throwing Hawke from his neck, the daggers pulled from her hands but embedded in his eye sockets. She heard a sick _crack_ as she hit the ground, but rolled to lose the rest of her momentum and managed to get to one knee to turn around.

Alduin was still.

The mist rolled back. A deep silence sank into the world.

Hawke’s arm began to make its injury known, and she hissed, cradling it in her right hand. The sound seemed to break a spell, and everyone moved. Drake lunged to Hawke’s side, pulling her bracer off to examine the break. Delphine drove her sword deep into Alduin’s throat and sliced it open, hot blood pouring onto the ground.

“What’s happening?” Ulfric cried, and Hawke looked back up from her arm to see swirls of light rising from Alduin’s body. It jerked, sending Delphine scrambling backward, then rose up on its haunches, wings spread, as the flesh disappeared in those ribbons of light that lifted from the body to join those in the sky. Fire licked along the now-visible skeleton, which began to glow from within, then exploded, taking all trace of Alduin World-Eater with it.

“Well,” Hawke said in the ensuing silence. “That’s pretty definitive.”

Drake snorted, then snickered, then began laughing in a deep belly-laugh. He released Hawke’s arm and bent over, hands braced against his knees, guffawing. Hawke stared at him, then an answering smile rose to her lips.

“It wasn’t that funny,” she said.

“No, it was not,” he agreed breathlessly, standing back up and wiping tears from his eyes. “I am tired, and I imagine exhaustion has gotten the best of me.”

Delphine drifted over to them, her sword still in her hand and dripping blood. “You did it,” she said.

“It looks very much like _you_ did it,” Drake said. “The death throes did not begin until you cut his throat.”

“But I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” she said. “I _am_ sorry about bringing you here, but I’m glad you helped.”

“That’s what we do,” Hawke said. “We help. And by the way, _ow_.”

“Let me see,” Drake said. “Has anyone got something we can splint this with?”

The world shook again, and Hawke lurched into Drake’s chest. “ _Now_ what?” she said.

“You have served your purpose here,” Felldir said. “I imagine Shor is sending you home.”

“ _Home_ home?” Hawke asked hopefully.

“Farewell, warriors. I hope we meet again one day.” Sovngarde shimmered, twisted, faded. “But not too soon,” came Felldir’s voice faintly through the blur.

Then Hawke, Drake, Delphine, and Ulfric stood on the patterned stone that had once held a portal, high above Skyrim in the Velothi Mountains.

“Damn,” Drake said. “I appear to have left my fire staff in Sovngarde.”


	31. Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Brynjolf doesn't actually have his own room in vanilla, but work with me here.

Paarthurnax made two trips to carry the four back to Windhelm, where the court wizard, Wuunferth, splinted Hawke’s arm and gave her a few potions for the pain. Hawke missed Bethany desperately; her sister could have patched this up with a few words and maybe a potion. But her sister was long gone, off in the Deep Roads with the Wardens. Maybe she could get Drake to let her visit more often, now that they were friends.

“Did you-know-who say anything about how long it would take to send us home?” Hawke asked as she and Drake waited at Candlehearth Hall.

Drake shook his head. “And something about that has been bothering me,” he said. “Something about energy flows.”

“I don’t know much about magic,” Hawke said.

“We are not supposed to be here,” Drake muttered to himself. Hawke sat back, balancing her mug of ale on her knee, her injured arm held close to her stomach. He clearly didn’t need her help to work this out.

Skyrim wasn’t so bad, she decided. Sure, it was on the brink of a civil war, and there were probably still some dragons around, but it had a nice climate—in the southern reaches—and good ale, and a whole city down south where she could find a home if she needed to. As long as she didn’t think about a laketop city having a basement.

A sudden impulse grabbed her and she sat forward, placing her mug down with a dull _clunk_ on the table in front of the fire. Startled out of his thoughts, Drake looked up at her.

“If it turns out that I need to be in a specific place for you-know-who to send us home, send a courier to Riften,” she said. “There’s something I have to take care of.”

“Um, okay,” Drake said, but she was already on her feet and halfway down the stairs to the front door.

The carriage driver wasn’t particularly thrilled about an evening departure, but she paid him a bit extra—Ulfric had been generous with his rewards for their bravery—and he got the horse up to a slow trot. It was late when they arrived in Riften, but the moons brightened the road.

The gate guards said not a word to Hawke as she entered the city. The streets were mostly deserted, with only a few city guards making a show of patrolling. Hawke went straight to the graveyard and down into the cistern.

Brynjolf was waiting for her. “Little birds said you were coming,” he said.

“You have little birds watching for me?”

Brynjolf shrugged. “You make an impression, lass. I was hoping you’d return.”

“I don’t know how long I have,” she said. “I may have to leave suddenly. _Really_ suddenly.”

He touched her gently on the shoulder and she looked down at her splinted arm. “War wound?” he asked.

“Well, you know,” she said with a half-smile. “We did kill a dragon.”

“You are quite the miracle, lass,” he said.

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, catching his mouth with hers. He wrapped his arms around her waist and snugged her firmly against his body. Her good arm released his shirt and reached up behind his head to hold him in place.

Catcalls and whistles erupted from the dark corners around them. “Get a room!” someone called.

Hawke leaned back and grinned up at Brynjolf. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said.

“You’re just lucky I’m so high ranked in this guild, lass,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into a small side room. “I actually have a door.”

He was gentle and careful of her arm. Under the thin leather armor, his body was lithe and firmly muscled without bulging everywhere like some of the Nord warriors she’d seen. He murmured endearments into her ear, his lilting accent as much of a turn-on as his physical presence. And for a few hours, she forgot Anders, forgot her responsibilities, and enjoyed the moment for what it was.

She curled into his side to nap, and he tossed one of the furs over them, his even breathing and the steady beat of his heart lulling her to sleep.

She woke in her own bed, naked and alone, but with a warmth in her belly and fond memories that she knew she’d carry with her forever.

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, catching his mouth with hers. He wrapped his arms around her waist and snugged her firmly against his body. Her good arm released his shirt and reached up behind his head to hold him in place.

Catcalls and whistles erupted from the dark corners around them. “Get a room!” someone called.

Hawke leaned back and grinned up at Brynjolf. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said.

“You’re just lucky I’m so high ranked in this guild, lass,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into a small side room. “I actually have a door.”

He was gentle and careful of her arm. Under the thin leather armor, his body was lithe and firmly muscled without bulging everywhere like some of the Nord warriors she’d seen. He murmured endearments into her ear, his lilting accent as much of a turn-on as his physical presence. And for a few hours, she forgot Anders, forgot her responsibilities, and enjoyed the moment for what it was.

She curled into his side to nap, and he tossed one of the furs over them, his even breathing and the steady beat of his heart lulling her to sleep.

She woke in her own bed, naked and alone, but with a warmth in her belly and fond memories that she knew she’d carry with her forever.


	32. Epilogue

Hawke immediately wrote a letter and had a courier take it to Drake in Amaranthine. Then she went to find Varric. Once he was assured of her health and safety, he told her about the Inquisition and the rifts in the Veil. About Corypheus. Hawke agreed to offer her expertise to the Inquisitor, but not to join the fight unless it was absolutely necessary.

Drake awoke in his own bed in Vigil’s Keep, and his reappearance caused a minor uproar. The first thing he did was light a fire in his palm, just to be sure he could. Relief flooded him as magic rose to his will. Then he wrote a letter to Hawke in Kirkwall and sent it by the fastest courier Amaranthine had at its disposal. In it, he invited her to join him on a brief Deep Roads expedition.

A few weeks later, she showed up at Vigil’s Keep, looking much calmer and more relaxed than he had ever seen her. There was no brace on her arm; he assumed she’d gotten a healer-mage to take care of it for her.

“So, the Deep Roads,” she said when he appeared. “I’ve been down there a couple of times. What are we doing?”

“We do owe Mora a shrine,” he said. “But I suspect that he actually had nothing to do with sending us home.”

“Explain?”

“We did not belong in Skyrim. A spell was holding us there. Once the conditions of the spell had been met—Alduin was dead—the energy resonance of Nirn shoved us out of Skyrim and back here, where we do belong.”

“Why didn’t it happen right away?” Hawke asked. “It was a good day, maybe two, later.”

“ _Maybe_ two?” Drake raised an eyebrow at her. He clearly knew exactly where she had gone and what she’d been doing, though how he knew was beyond her.

“Shut up,” she said, punching him in the arm with a grin. He looked startled at first, then grinned back.

“The point is,” he continued. “We did make a deal for the information about Alduin.”

“And you paid him with your memories,” she said.

“And I have no _proof_ that he did not have something to do with our return home.”

“And since he never specified where in Thedas he wanted his shrine built, you’re gonna bury it in some forgotten corner of the Deep Roads and hope that’s enough,” she said.

“That is the notion. Want to come?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who stuck around to read this even when I dropped off the face of the fanfic-writing planet for a bit. I've really enjoyed playing with these characters and in these worlds, and I appreciate all of you for caring enough to read it!


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